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/ 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


BOOKS BY 

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK 


A Little Dusky Hero 
A Son of the Hills 
At the Crossroads 
Camp Brave Pine 
Janet of the Dunes 
Joyce of the North Woods 
Mam’selle Jo 

Princess Rags and Tatters 
The Man Thou Gavest 
The Place Beyond the Winds 
The Shield of Silence 
The Tenth Woman 
The Vindication 
Unbroken Lines 

































































































- 












. 



















































































































































ROSE-ANN, THE TENTH WOMAN 
“Nine women out of ten would have acted differently” 





The Tenth Wbman 

By 

Harriet T. Comstock 

ii 



J 

Frontispiece 

by 

George W, Gage 


Garden City New York 

Doubleday, Page & Company 

1923 











# 



0 / 138 ? 



COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY ' 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATE8 
AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

First Edition 

MAY 24 ’23 

©C1A704G36 

V 






With sincere affection I dedicate this work to 
THE HOUSE ON THE HILL 

It is such a kind and friendly house. 

“ It gossips with the trees.” Beneath its sheltering roof the 
old and the new merge into one. Its shadows of the past 
are tinged gloriously by the sunshine of the present. 

For all that it has meant to me and given to me I am 
grateful. 

Harriet T. Comstock 

New York 
Jan. 12, 1923 












THE TENTH WOMAN 























THE TENTH WOMAN 


CHAPTER I 

T HE branch road of the Boston & Essex Line ended 
abruptly at the dun-coloured station of Middle Essex. 
The main line ended at Essex. So sudden was the 
branch’s termination that it gave one the impression of a jog. 

Beyond the station, to the west, lay pleasant pastures and 
woody hills, rich in rocks and sturdy trees—wild flowers grew 
everywhere but the ground was uncultivated and was held, 
by far-visioned owners, for the future; in the meantime the 
section was known as Far Essex. 

In front of the dull-toned station, and running to the east, 
was the Main, and only, street of the township of Middle 
Essex. In well-kept and dignified beauty the road took its 
course between plume-like elms, past green and fragrant 
lawns. Just as it had a hundred years ago; as it would, so 
it suggested, a hundred years hence. 

The first estate one came to after leaving the station be¬ 
longed to the Compton family. The stately lawns and house 
were cared for by a faithful old servant; the garden bloomed 
early and late, but for over twenty years the owners had 
lived abroad and left their affairs in the hands of the law firm, 
Dalton and Dalton, of Boston. 

That any one should choose to live abroad who legitimately 
belonged to Middle Essex was a matter rarely discussed but 
deeply resented by other Middle Essexians. 

The head of the family of Compton had always been a 
queer, moody man taking no interest in public affairs, feared 
and obeyed blindly by his meek wife; a man from whom his 
only son, Barry, shrank and before whom his servants trem- 


i 


2 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


bled. He was not missed from Middle Essex; he was merely 
resented; but when he died it was hoped that his widow and 
son would return to their native land. This had not come 
to pass and no one but the lawyers and, perhaps, the care¬ 
taker, knew their whereabouts. 

Between the Compton place and the hilltop there was a 
stretch of lovely pasture crowned on the right by a wooded 
knoll in the heart of which lay a tiny lake, like a hidden 
jewel. 

The Trevall homestead dominated, triumphantly, the 
crest of the hill. A dignified, colonial edifice was the Trevall’s 
and nearly two hundred years old. It still preserved, through 
all accumulation of modern devices for comfort, the sacred 
relics of the past. In the brick oven the Christmas turkey 
was always roasted; open fireplaces played their active 
part even while the hot-water furnace sputtered its contempt. 

The road, after leaving the Trevall acres, seemed to get 
absent-minded. It sagged a bit and edged, in friendly 
fashion, to the very doorsteps of lesser homes where, behind 
discreetly drawn shutters and closed portals, old families hid, 
even from their kith and kin, the devices made necessary by 
diminishing incomes and proud refusals to adapt themselves 
to change. 

But the road recovered its dignity farther on and became a 
respectable highway as it entered Essex. 

At Essex were the Primary and Grammar schools; the 
three churches, Presbyterian, Unitarian, and Catholic; the 
First National Bank, of which John Trevall was president; 
the woollen mills of the Conklin and Conklin Company; some 
very good stores, and the houses of young married people. 

Some of these young people were strangers to Essex and, 
indeed, to New England. They saw no reason for apology 
for their pretty homes with small, tidy lawns and embowered 
porches, but those citizens who came of the Middle Essex 
stock regarded Essex as a sort of purgatory: a temporary 
test of character and business genius. They existed merely 
until such time as they could afford to build in Middle Essex 
and begin to carry on the traditions; be sure of their neigh- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


3 


hours and forget the trying ordeal of the purgatorial state 
through which they had passed. 

Of course one could go by the branch road from Essex 
to Middle Essex—that was what the Branch was constructed 
for, and many availed themselves of the convenience—but 
those who could afford to do so motored into town and thus 
escaped contact with strangers who, while most desirable from 
a business point of view, were not eligible as social equals. 

John Trevall always rode to Essex in his small but ex¬ 
pensive car. He naturally resented automobiles as he did 
all other innovations, but when they became necessities he 
procured the best. 

Often one or the other of his daughters acted as chauffeur 
for Trevall; when they were not at the wheel, a young man- 
of-all-work, who had had this detested job thrust upon him, 
scowlingly took command. 

From the moment the door of his house closed upon Tre¬ 
vall, he became another personality. A citizen who saw his 
duty and did it serenely; a business man, keen and of iron 
integrity. But when at six o’clock his eyes rested, from afar, 
upon the door of his house—a doorway mentioned in most 
books dealing with New England architecture: when the 
shining knocker on that door caught his eye—a knocker that 
had been lifted by the hands of Emerson, Longfellow, and 
several Harvard presidents, Trevall became himself once 
more. Himself. 

Inside, the stately rooms of the quiet house presented an 
almost painful order and cleanliness. The shining quality 
of mahogany and brass suggested backache and set mouths, 
but Trevall never got that suggestion. As things had been, 
they were, and always would be. They represented a static 
state; a state he reverenced. 

Trevall always went at once, upon reaching home, to his 
bedchamber. There he dropped his business garments and 
reappeared later in clothing more befitting his surround¬ 
ings. He then descended to the living room and his family. 
He was always greeted as though he had been away on a long 
trip. 


4 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Faith Trevall, John’s wife, sat, according to the tempera¬ 
ture, by the open fire or the open west window. She always 
sat in a low rocker from whose back swung a rather giddy 
silk workbag. When Trevall entered the room Faith rose 
and went toward him. 

“Tired, dear?” she asked, raising her sweet face. 

“No, my dear,” Trevall would answer, and bend to kiss 
her—on the forehead. 

Sometimes Prudence, the older daughter, would be in the 
room; occasionally Rose-Ann the younger; but they never 
interrupted this rite of arrival. 

A newcomer to Middle Essex often contemplated Faith 
Trevall with puzzled amusement—she did not seem exactly 
to fit into the general scheme, but the old families had long 
ago accepted the little woman as something Trevall had 
acquired and moulded into shape. 

When she was Faith Adams, and seventeen, she had been 
pretty, rather giddy, and exquisitely pliable. She was a 
daughter of the haphazard state of New York and in her 
veins ran a mingling of blood that might have caused trouble 
had she not been, at seventeen and a half, appropriated by 
Trevall, incorporated into his traditions, and run into form. 
She had apparently congealed and, thereafter, honoured her 
station. 

There had been seven children born to Trevall and his 
wife. Five of them died early in life, and the neat little 
row of graves in the Presbyterian Churchyard still had 
power to contract the throat of the mother. 

The sixth child, Prudence, survived, and was all that 
might be expected. She gave no trouble from the hour of 
her birth; she did what was legitimate and proper, and seemed 
to be the recompense for all that had been denied. For ten 
years this model child was the only child and lived her serene 
days in the old house without interruption, and then—Rose- 
Ann was born! After Rose-Ann anything else in the form 
of offspring would have been superfluous. From the moment 
of her birth she dominated the household. 

She was so pretty that she startled the family, who re- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


5 


garded beauty and happiness as obstacles to virtue. She 
completely obliterated Prudence by this quality of loveliness. 
When life smiled upon Rose-Ann she smiled and coquetted 
with life, but she reacted to discipline with roars of rage—no 
other word described her tones. She hungered for adventure 
and counted not the cost, but monotony drove her to actions 
bordering upon impishness. 

She had all childish diseases in terrifying rapidity and 
intensity. She walked early and talked earlier. Her first 
word was “why” and that was the keynote of her career. 

Rose-Ann, in after life, always said that her first impressions 
were received from a prostrate position. Lying on her 
stomach, her small chin resting in her hands, she regarded 
events at an angle that probably accounted for many of her 
conclusions. 

Out of doors this position was utilized for reading and 
gathering knowledge of animal and insect life. The up¬ 
lifted feet indicating the state of mind, as a dog’s tail in¬ 
dicates his. 

It was wonderful what sounds were discerned when one 
laid her ear to the warm earth. The sap running up into the 
trees, the scurry of little wild feet near, oh! so near to the 
slim, quiet form, and the bursting of the buds in the spring. 

Indoors the prostrate position was regarded as the best 
possible angle from which to view the mysteries of the open 
fire. 

Prudence, when she was fifteen and Rose-Ann five, became 
sedately interested in the fire revelations; they stirred her 
sluggish imagination, but that sterling steed of Prudence’s 
was always well in control. 

“The things are not in the fire, Rose-Ann,” Prudence 
primly stated. “You only think they are, while you play.” 

“They are in the fire. I couldn’t put them there. It’s 
only when I see them there that I can play,” Rose-Ann 
retorted, and kicked her heels aloft as she spoke. 

“Then—you tell lies y Rose-Ann.” Prudence knew neither 
gray nor light blue in virtue. “And little girls who tell 
lies-” 


6 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“Shut up!” Rose-Ann suddenly broke in, “When you 
talk something happens to things in the fire—they get 
blurry.” 

This was reported to headquarters. 

“She does lie, Mother, really,” Prudence explained with 
tears in her cool steady eyes, “and—and I haven’t told you 
before but she says worse things than ‘shut up’—she once 
said—‘damn.’ It frightened her after she said it—she cried, 
and when I asked her \yhere she had heard that word she 
said—it was in her; she only had to take it out, and that 
there were many she could take out if she wanted to; worse 
ones!” 

This was alarming. Mrs. Trevall, with an insane desire 
to laugh, controlled the tendency by undue severity. 

Rose-Ann was dignifiedly spanked and sent to the “upper 
chamber” over the living room to think the matter over and 
perchance find forgiveness. 

Things were in the Trevall family as they always had 
been. Virtues, sins, punishments, and—reactions. Nothing 
changed. 

Now in that upper chamber, sacred to guests of honour 
and freshly spanked youngsters, there was a hole in the floor. 
This was covered by a thin sheeting of tin and a beautiful 
knitted rug. A stovepipe, in long-past days, had made its 
way to the chimney by this route. 

The day that Rose-Ann came into contact with authority 
as it dealt with blasphemy, she discovered the hole by pure 
good luck. She was howling and kicking when a well-aimed 
blow disclosed the medium through which curiosity could 
leak down and information ooze up. 

Rose-Ann ceased her outrageous tantrum so suddenly that 
people below should have taken warning, but they did not; 
they just went calmly on—talking. 

John Trevall had entered the room. Rose-Ann knew 
exactly what was occurring. He would stand in the middle 
of the room until Mother lifted her face and asked if he were 
tired. He would say “no” and kiss the forehead of Mother 
and then go to his chair, across the hearth from Mother’s 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


7 


rocker, and beckon Prudence to him. After being assured of 
Prudence’s virtuous conduct he would kiss her and ask for 
Rose-Ann. 

That was exactly what occurred while Rose-Ann listened. 

“John, I had to punish the child.” 

There was a tone in Mother’s voic^ that Rose-Ann later 
understood. 

Then followed a detailed account of the scandalous actions 
of Rose-Ann while Trevall tapped the arms of his chair with 
thin white fingers. 

“I—I spanked her, John—and she is so little and—soft.” 

Mother was crying. 

“She thinks she sees and hears things,” Mrs. Trevall 
pleaded. 

“She cannot too early learn to distinguish between what 
she thinks and what she knows.” That was Father, of 
course, and the words were punctuated by taps. 

“But who does know, really, John?” 

Rose-Ann waited breathlessly. That was her particular 
stumbling block—to think that her mother felt that way, too! 
That was the hour of Rose-Ann’s intellectual revolt. 

“It is very simple,” John Trevall replied. “Truth is 
simple.” 

The small rebel above, on her stomach, longed to resort 
to her time-honoured roar , but she conquered the impulse. 
She solemnly swore, then and there, never again to indulge in 
that relief—it attracted attention! She would never again 
tell any one about the pictures in the fire nor the queer 
sounds that birds made in their nests. 

She would keep things to herself—no one should get the 
best of her in the future. She would never, God hearing 
her, make her mother cry again if she could help it. 

From five to twelve Rose-Ann was a silent, wide-eyed 
child given to most alarming symptoms. 

She took the stern religion of her family hard, as she did 
measles and whooping cough, and she gloried in it. 

“Why, I wouldn’t be a Unitarian for anything, Mother,” 
she confided; “it’s too easy—I like hell fire”—the religion 


8 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


of the Trevalls was exactly the same as it had been from the 
time of Jonathan Edwards. Fierce, hot, and picturesque; it 
was their one dramatic indulgence. 

“Oh! Rose-Ann,” Mrs. Trevall was shocked as people 
often are when their creeds turn about and give a direct 
blow. “Hell is not a thing to like—it’s a fearful warning—a 
thing we don’t talk about-” 

“Why not?” Rose-Ann asked. “Someone’s got to go 
there or it—it would dry up—so I think we ought to talk 
about it and get—acquainted. 

“Why”—here Rose-Ann’s eyes took on that look that 
made Mrs. Trevall’s lips soften—“I’ve got it all pictured 
out asTeal as can be. 

“Hell is like our furnace—and by the door stands some¬ 
one shovelling folks in-” 

“Rose-Ann—stop!” Mrs. Trevall was trembling. 

“That’s only the way I picture it, Mother. I have to 
have something familiar. Sometimes it’s so funny, Mother 
—but sometimes I try and see who is on the shovel—but 
never is it any one I know. Isn’t hell for our people, 
Mother?” 

“It’s for sinners,” Mrs. Trevall replied weakly; “and 
there are sinners in all classes, Rose-Ann dear, but—but 
don’t you ever picture heaven ?” 

“I try to, but it seems so—so stupid. Honestly, Mother; 
and maybe I am a sinner and being prepared for the shovel, 
but I don’t think I’d mind burns, and hoppings around to 
cool off, half so much as to be bored stiff.” 

This conversation was repeated to Mr. Trevall in the 
living room that evening. Indeed, the doings of Rose-Ann 
were the usual topic of conversation when John and Faith 
sat alone, and they were often alone now, for at the age of 
twenty-two Prudence had married the head clerk in her 
father’s bank and was enduring purgatorial tests in a small 
house in Essex. Her absence from the Trevall house had 
brought about changes most gratifying to Rose-Ann. Life 
was less complicated and dispositions were sweeter. With no 
one bent constantly upon doing others good, good looked 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


9 


after itself. Then, too, Rose-Ann as daughter of the house 
had privileges. She had been offered Prudence’s bedcham¬ 
ber, but to this she, as might have been expected, objected. 

“I’d rather have the upper chamber, Mother,” she ex¬ 
plained; “please do Prue’s room over for guests—they 
wouldn’t mind.” 

Strange to say,Mr.Trevall agreed to this without comment, 
and so it was that Rose-Ann, whose dignity and conscience 
now recoiled from the hole in the floor still, while lying in 
bed, gathered valuable information. 

Wide-eyed and motionless the girl, supposed to be sleeping, 
learned much of the true inwardness of life as it rose, broken 
here and there by lowered tones in the conversation carried 
on by her parents or their friends below. 

Rose-Ann at twelve was athirst for truth; athirst for 
knowledge; but early she had learned that her questions 
more often closed doors to her than opened them. The 
simplest course to pursue, consequently, was to keep silent 
and—listen. Often she drifted into sleep with a cargo of 
valuable and undigested material some of which melted into 
dreams—wonderful dreams—but some sank into that vague 
region of subconsciousness and bided its time. 

The evening of the day upon which Rose-Ann had con¬ 
fided her religious views to her mother was destined to make 
a deep impression upon the girl. 

Mr. Trevall was tapping on the arms of his chair; the 
staccato raps seemed to strike on Rose-Ann’s exposed nerves. 
When one is “all ears,” sounds have terrific significance, and 
those sharp taps had grown, with the years, into a torment to 
the sensitive child. The raps punctuated the vital conversa¬ 
tion below like audible marks; commas, semi-colons, and 
periods. 

“She’s a very strange and puzzling child,” John Trevall 
spoke in reply to his wife’s confidence; “she’s a serious 
responsibility. It seems peculiarly hard, Faith, that you 
and I should have such a problem to solve.” 

“ Perhaps we—we ought not try to solve it, John.” This 
was daring. “She’s very lovely and affectionate—though 


10 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


different. She is the merriest soul, too. Her amazing 
ideas about religion and life do not detract from her sweet¬ 
ness and charm.” 

“She seems to me,” Trevall broke in, “to be very superfi¬ 
cial and trifling. Her ‘ideas/ as you term them, are simply 
pert. A constant curb should be kept upon her.” 

“I’m not so sure about that, John. To clip and train 
often makes young things stronger at the roots.” 

This caused the listener in the bed above to raise her bare 
feet in an ecstasy of delighted kicks. Rose-Ann adored her 
mother; was beginning already to understand her. 

“‘As the twig is bent/” John Trevall quoted solemnly, 
and then there was a pause while the tapping continued and 
the clicking of Faith TrevalPs knitting needles kept time. 

From such pauses dramatic things often evolve. 

Suddenly, apropos of nothing, apparently, Faith Trevall 
remarked calmly: 

“Old Mrs. Armstrong was here to-day, John. She 
toddled up the hill like a naughty, mischievous old baby. 
She must be ninety, if she is a day-” 

“Ninety-two,” Trevall corrected. 

“She said such a strange thing, John. She chuckled over 
it—she said that Rose-Ann looks like”— the voice fell to a 
mere whisper—“like Aunt Theodora!” 

The name struck upon Rose-Ann’s waiting ears with 
thudding force. She had never heard it before, but it was 
heavy with significance. 

“How can Mrs. Armstrong remember my great-aunt 
Theodora?” asked Trevall, and his voice was like something 
rigid; “she was a mere child at the time.” 

“The old are visioned both ways, John dear. She may 
remember clearly, though she were only a little child at the 
time.” 

“This is not a pleasant topic of conversation, Faith.” 

Trevall always snipped off conversation he did not approve 
as one snips a dead leaf from a bush. But Faith Trevall, 
just then, took no heed. She went on musingly: 

“Old Mrs. Armstrong described clearly the night-” Here 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


n 


a lowering of her voice caused Rose-Ann to lose a sentence 
or two. Then: “ It was an awful thing, John, to send a young 
girl adrift, no matter what she had done—and at night, too.” 

Little, dramatic details always interested Faith Trevall. 

“You surprise me, my dear,” and John Trevall’s voice 
sounded surprised; “surely you remember that it was Theo¬ 
dora who cut herself adrift.” 

“But she came back, John.” 

“A woman never comes back, my dear, after doing what 
she did!” Trevall’s words struck into the quietness like icy 
pellets; “when one thinks of the blood that ran in her veins; 
of her training and opportunities—why, it was incompre¬ 
hensible!” Since Trevall had not choked the subject of 
conversation at its birth he meant to get the best of it now 
and for ever. It was as if the long-dead ghost of Aunt 
Theodora had risen and must be definitely laid. 

“She left her home and husband.” TrevalFs voice 
trembled with virtue and determination. “She ran away 
with a common peddler.” 

“Oh, not quite that, John,” Faith breathlessly interjected 
with one of her dramatic details; “Mrs. Armstrong said he 
was a kind of artist or something like that.” 

Trevall paid no attention to the interruption. 

“She tramped the countryside with him like an abandoned 
gypsy, and when she became weary of her evil doings, she did 
what was most wrong of all. Unwilling to bear the burden 
she had evolved for herself, she sought to make them she had 
injured share it with her. She placed them in a position, 
always the saddest, of either shielding what no right-minded 
persons should or doing their hard but sacred duty. 

“In the name of decency and Christianity there was but 
one thing to do, and I am proud to say my forbears did it!” 
TrevalFs voice clanked like an iron chain. “Blood should 
never weigh against justice.” 

Rose-Ann drew the blankets over her head. She was 
cold and unhappy. Muffled, however, Faith Trevall's words 
reached the shivering girl: 

“I suppose you are right, John. I dare not question that. 


12 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


But when I think of that poor child, as Mrs. Armstrong 
described her—I—I hate—justice! 

“She stood right on the crown of the hill in front of this 
house, John, so Mrs. Armstrong said, and called back.” 
There was a pause and Trevall broke in: 

“I do not wish this evil story to be repeated,” he said 
sternly and finally; “that you, Faith, should be interested 
in forgotten scandal brought to your door by a senile old 
creature-” 

Trevall brought a “period tap” into action. 

“Does Rose-Ann look like Aunt Theodora, John?” Faith 
was too deep in the matter to heed the efforts to distract her. 
This, then, was the crux of the matter. 

“Does she, John?” 

“How should I know? Everything relating to the un¬ 
happy woman was destroyed.” 

“But did they, years after, bring her poor body back and 
bury it here, John?” 

“If they did—the place is forgotten, Faith!” There was 
no relenting in Trevall’s tone. 

Again Faith Trevall, as if talking to herself, spoke musingly: 

“Poor, desperate child! They say she laughed and 
warned them that they were not through with her, she would 
return and have her hour yet.” 

“Faith!” The tone of command at last silenced Faith 
Trevall and it caused Rose-Ann, in the chamber above, to 
experience that sensation of heat, followed by cold, that more 
and more her father's overbearing personality evoked. 

Slipping quietly from her bed, she ran across the hall and 
to the window overlooking the crown of the hill upon which 
Aunt Theodora had taken her last stand. 

The road was like a broad band of white lying between 
the shadows of the tall elms, for the moon was directly over¬ 
head. 

Almost it seemed, in the weird, ghostly gleam, as if a small, 
defiant figure stood there and a sound, perhaps the lowing of 
a bereft cow, rose like a desolate call from the risen dead who 
could find no rest; no peace. 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


13 


“Vll have my hour yet!” 

Well, Aunt Theodora was having it now, for Rose-Ann 
shivering by the window, stretched out her slim arms as if in 
welcome while she murmured softly: 

“Aunt Theodora—here I am; Rose-Ann! I’m—sorry 
for you.” 


CHAPTER II 


W HEN the clock struck ten on the night that Rose- 
Ann stood by thewindow and looked out at the crest 
of the hill, it did not strike just the hours; it struck 
a deep note that sank into the girl’s consciousness and one 
which was destined to reverberate through all her future 
years. 

“ You* re — not — done — with — me — V11 — have — my — hour — 
yet!" 

Ten! Then such quiet as surely had rarely fallen upon 
Middle Essex. 

The girl by the window trembled, while instincts never 
recognized before rose and overwhelmed her. 

She flamed and paled; she smiled and then broke into 
tears; she was being absorbed by a force over which she had 
no control. 

Between the ages of twelve and twenty Rose-Ann passed 
from the lank, trying type into a sweet, fascinating creature 
of colour and charm. 

She was as utterly unlike Prudence as though no common 
blood ran in their veins. Prudence was stout and capable. She 
wore trim house gowns of her own making. Rose-Ann de¬ 
signed her own gowns and the village seamstress carried out 
her plan. They were strange garments, unlike anything 
female that Middle Essex had ever seen, but they seemed to 
be part of Rose-Ann. 

“You wear no corsets!” Prudence once remarked indig¬ 
nantly. 

“No, thank heaven,” Rose-Ann flung back, “I haven’t 
anything to hold up that my bones cannot hold.” Then, un¬ 
kindly, “ Prudence—you eat too much. You’re growing fat.” 
Prudence’s cool eyes blazed but she made no reply. 

H 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


i5 


Life was comfortable for Prudence and Albert Townsend. 
Investments had turned out well and the new house to be 
built in the future was becoming a near-by possibility. 
Purgatory was all but over! 

There were no children to disturb and complicate the 
Townsend affairs. Prudence’s life had flowed undisturbedly 
on and that made for breadth of beam and soft flesh. 

Rose-Ann had gone brilliantly through the schools of 
Essex. She had read everything within a radius of fifteen 
miles and had bought books in Boston, besides. She had a 
carefully chosen shelf of books in the chamber above the 
living room and then instead of going the expected way and 
marrying, she suddenly announced, on her twentieth birth¬ 
day, that she wanted to go to college. 

This request Trevall flatly refused. 

“But you wanted Prudence to go!” pleaded Rose-Ann. 
“You’ve always said that you believed women should have 
all the education possible.” 

“Would you care to go to Mt. Holyoke?” John Trevall 
temporized at this crisis. 

“No—that is only a half-way measure,” the girl retorted. 

“Very well, then, Rose-Ann, you cannot leave home for 
any other college.” 

After this interview, John Trevall took the family into his 
confidence. Rose-Ann and her demands had disturbed 
him considerably and he was beginning to feel the necessity 
of sharing the responsibility with others. 

“Why do you think she has suddenly come to this desire?” 
he asked. 

Prudence, who was present at the time, was ready with an 
explanation. 

“She doesn’t really want college , Father, she wants to get 
away; to go to one of those dangerous universities where 
both men and women go!” 

Trevall stared. 

“Has she said anything like this to you, Prudence?” 

“Yes, Father. She is restless and says that Middle Essex 
bores her.” 


i6 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


John Trevall looked positively alarmed, but Faith smiled 
over her knitting. At this juncture Rose-Ann came in from 
one of her long, wind-swept walks. She looked radiant in 
her youth and beauty. 

“Rose-Ann,” John Trevall began the terrible tapping on 
the arms of his chair, “we’ve been discussing this mad idea 
of yours—about college.” 

“I thought that was settled, Father, as far as you were 
concerned.” Rose-Ann went close to her father and smiled 
down upon him—her smile thrilled even him, and he resented 
that. 

“Do you mind, Daddy,” she said, “if I sit on the arm of 
your chair?” This would limit the tapping, she felt. 

“ I prefer that you draw up a chair of your own, Rose-Ann.” 

“Very well, Pater. Now, then, let us hear what the 
family have to say.” 

She took the family in with a sweep of her wide, friendly 
eyes; she removed her turban and let loose a lovely mass of 
short curly hair. 

“Now, Sir—and family!” 

Trevall never approached a subject directly when dealing 
with inferiors. He left ways open for them to incriminate 
themselves. 

“Just for argument, Rose-Ann, if you were to choose a 
college, which one would it be?” he asked suddenly. 

“I haven’t quite decided which, Father. I know that I 
would like to go a long way from home—that would seem 
part of the experience. I want to live among new people; 
among new scenes. I want to find myself, Father, to get a 
good understanding of myself—be independent.” 

The sweet, hurried voice broke into fervent tones. 

Prudence sighed—she was justified! 

Mrs. Trevall sent a yearning glance toward the pretty 
creature pleading before a power that could never compre¬ 
hend her. 

“I see!” John Trevall set his strong teeth together; 
“you are touched with the spirit of the times.” 

“Yes, Father. These are my times.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


1 7 


“You—want to be free!” 

“Yes, Father. What have I done that I should not be 
free? Why is it a subject of discussion?” 

“Do you forget that you are a woman?” That was the 
thought in Trevall’s mind, but he said tolerantly: 

“My dear child, it is my duty as your father to protect 
you!” 

“From what, Father?” 

“From yourself, apparently, Rose-Ann. Had I found in 
you a sincere desire for learning, I might have reconsidered 
my decision, reached a few days ago, but anything that tends 
to draw a woman permanently from her legitimate field 
should be discouraged.” 

“But, Daddy,” Rose-Ann was smiling, “who is to judge 
so tremendous a thing for another?” 

“In this case I am, Rose-Ann.” 

There was never a doubt in Trevall’s mind as to his eligi¬ 
bility as a judge. 

Then Rose-Ann stood up; the others gazed afFrightedly 
at her, for the expression on her face was new. 

“You dears!” she said calmly, almost pityingly. “I 
wasn’t going to tell you for a long time, but after all perhaps 
this is as good a time as any. I will be twenty-one in an¬ 
other year and then—I am going to college. I am thinking 
seriously about which one, but when the time comes I will 
have chosen. I will work my way through if necessary, 
but I am going.” 

“Is this a threat, Rose-Ann?” Trevall was rigid. 

“No, Daddy—and family—just a statement. In a year 
we will all have become accustomed to the idea and Prudence 
will be helping me get ready.” 

“Rose-Ann, leave the room!” Trevall harked back to 
the days of spanking. 

“Of course you do not really mean that, Father!” Rose- 
Ann held the angry man with her smiling eyes; and she did 
not leave the room. 

The disturbing subject was not referred to again and life 
went smoothly on. Rose-Ann took long, lonely walks and 


i8 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


did most of her thinking and planning then. She was clear 
as to her course but she did not wish to hurt those she loved. 

“I am going to have my own life,” she promised herself. 
“No one has a right to deny me that, but I want to take it 
and keep love, too, if I can.” 

It was her mother at that time who caused Rose-Ann the 
most anxiety. There is a time in a girl’s life when a mother 
may stand revealed as a woman , or she may fade into the 
vague realm of those who, having fulfilled their mission, 
become uninteresting factors in the younger life, beings to be 
respected, for heaven alone knows what virtues; a responsi¬ 
bility to be regarded with more or less irritation. 

Faith Trevall was standing forth at this juncture as a 
vivid personality in Rose-Ann’s life. She was bewildering 
and perplexing; she seemed to be, in a way, shining through 
a thin film that utterly hid her from others but revealed her 
to Rose-Ann. 

In the girl’s most trying and restive moods there was an 
expression on Faith Trevall’s face that quivered with sym¬ 
pathy and hope; it seemed to hold fear, too—fear that Rose- 
Ann might not carry things to their legitimate end—a sort of 
protest against any weakening; an alert suggestion of readi¬ 
ness to spring to her aid at a crisis. 

“I wish* that I might take Mother with me,” the girl 
vaguely thought, though where and from what she did not 
try to explain even to herself. She only knew that while all 
others were unnecessary to her, her mother was becoming 
tremendously vital. They never discussed this new tie that 
was gaining strength between them. In all ways Faith 
Trevall outwardly appeared as usual—it was that self of hers 
that gazed out of the tender eyes at Rose-Ann, which in¬ 
terpreted the true woman; the woman who had been subdued 
but never conquered. 

It was during one of Rose-Ann’s lonely walks that she 
entered the old cemetery and wandered in that corner where 
forgotten graves were all but obliterated by long grasses and 
sturdy weeds. 

Many of the stones had crumbled; some were so moss- 


19 


THE TENTH WOMAN 

covered as to seem part of the sod, but there was one that had 
fallen face downward as if in despair and shame and so had, 
to a certain extent, preserved the record of the sleeper lying 
below. 

Rose-Ann absent-mindedly raised this stone and brushed 
aside the mould. 


Theodora Trevall Otis 
Born January 3, 1825 
Died February 6, 1851. 

That was all! But it brought back sharply the half-for¬ 
gotten memory of the disgraced dead. 

The words sank into Rose-Ann’s very soul. She found 
herself crying desolately and rebelliously. Such a little 
life to be filled with experiences that had brought it to this 
neglected port of forgotten ones! 

When the strange mood of pity and sympathy had passed, 
Rose-Ann was conscious of that thrill of excitement that had 
swept over her the night when she had first heard of Aunt 
Theodora through the hole in the floor. 

She reverently passed her hand over the mossy-faced stone. 
She drew the cracked slab into the sunlight, and Then knelt 
by the little flattened mound under which Aunt Theodora 
had been relievedly thrust so long ago. 

With the heavy stone removed and the tall weeds and 
grasses ruthlessly uprooted, it almost seemed as if Aunt Theo¬ 
dora might awaken and come back into the sunshine she had 
loved and braved. 

“ There!” whispered Rose-Ann. “Do you feel better, poor 
dear? After all these years I am here to welcome you—let 
us be friends, little old Auntie!” 

Then Rose-Ann counted off on her stained fingers the 
length of the brief life. 

“1851—1825—five from eleven—six! Two from four— 
two! 

“Twenty-six, you poor dear! And all that crammed in! 
Home, husband, lover. What was the peddler like, little 


20 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Auntie? What had he to offer that could make you leave all 
else and follow on ? 

“What had life done to you that made it possible for you 
to follow on ? 

“Did the peddler lead you into the open—or to a blind 
trail that ended here in this dreary corner? 

“Were you happy for a little time? Did it pay?” 

The thoughts pounded upon Rose-Ann’s brain; she became 
absorbed and felt as if she must, in herself, answer the 
questions for the inarticulate dead. 

“I’ve got to exonerate you, Aunt Theodora, and lay your 
unhappy ghost.” 

And then Rose-Ann laughed as one does who, having blun¬ 
dered along, sees a clear mark of a trail. 

From that day Rose-Ann paid frequent visits to the grave. 
It presently became a thing of beauty; an altar upon which 
the girl spread rarest flowers and at which she offered the 
secret yearnings of her heart and soul. The dead woman’s 
short story was the only romance that could arouse in Rose- 
Ann those stirrings of passion and curiosity that were being 
starved by her daily life. 

The summer passed and autumn; then winter hid the 
small mound under a blanket of snow and the unbroken 
whiteness lasted until spring. 

During that winter two great events marked Rose-Ann’s 
life: An aunt of her mother’s died, leaving Faith Trevall 
fifty thousand dollars, and Barry Compton came back with¬ 
out his mother, for she had died abroad. He was accompa¬ 
nied by an English man-servant and two maids and the 
beautiful old house was once more opened. 

The legacy and Barry Compton became, to Rose-Ann, 
things that merged into a Force that drove them all into the 
open. For a time they seemed strangers to each other, 
much was revealed and much evolved, and life vibrated to it. 

“Why have we never known this delightful aunt?” Rose- 
Ann naturally asked. 

“She was a most difficult person,” Trevall replied; “an 
impossible woman.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


21 


‘‘She does not seem to have laid anything up against 
Mother,” Rose-Ann twinkled. 

“She did, however, a characteristic thing.” Trevall, 
as he spoke, had the will spread before him on the 
table. He had an air of possession that irritated Rose- 
Ann. She felt like taking the paper from under his hand 
and carrying it to her mother who sat smilingly by the fire 
knitting. 

Faith Trevall was remembering that long-past time when 
the dead woman, who had opposed her marriage, was like a 
mother to her. 

Presently the door opened and Prudence and Albert 
Townsend entered—they had been summoned to the family 
conclave. 

“It was quite a shock at first,” Prudence exclaimed; “all 
that money dropped, practically dropped, upon us.” 

“On Mother,” Rose-Ann suggested, and moved a bit, 
making a place for her sister beside her on the settee. 

Albert Townsend also edged in—the three young faces 
on a level were amusingly different in expression. 

“Wait until you hear what the old dear tacked on to the 
will, Prue, then you will get another shock.” 

“I insist from the start, Rose-Ann, that you control your 
tongue.” Trevall, at times, could not tolerate the tendency 
of his younger daughter to keep in evidence. Intellectually 
he regretted the days of the upper chamber. 

“Please read the will, Father,” Prudence asked. “I 
tried to tell Albert but I have such a poor head for business, 
and you only gave the substance of it.” 

Prudence was one of those women who find it necessary, in 
order to establish her husband’s superiority, to reduce her 
own accomplishments to nil. 

John Trevall put on his spectacles and read slowly the 
terse, brief testament and then, more emphatically, the last 
words expressing the dead woman’s desire. 

“T bequeathe this money to my dear niece Faith Adams 
Trevall with the earnest hope that she will use it for her own 
personal needs!’” 


22 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Into the silence that ensued the words were translated by 
each listener according to his kind. 

“As if Mother had any personal needs!” Prudence’s 
remark was balm to her father. 

“The old lady was vindictive to the last,” he said. 

“Everyone has personal needs,” Rose-Ann ventured, 
looking wonderingly at her mother; “sort of queer needs 
that can only be met when one has—well, a free hand with 
what is one’s very own.” 

Faith Trevall folded her knitting and smiled. She seemed 
the least interested member of the group. 

“I’ll have to find out what mine are,” she said quietly; 
“it will be quite exciting.” 

“What are you going to do with—with the fortune?” 
asked Albert Townsend. Then he flushed darkly under 
Trevall’s frown of disapproval. 

“She will invest it wisely,” Trevall replied, looking at his 
wife with a new expression on his face. For the first time in 
their lives she suggested a doubt to him; a doubt of his power 
over her. 

At this point Faith Trevall took a stand that, for a moment, 
made her a stranger to them all. 

Her pale face was flushed as if her sluggish blood were 
flowing more freely. She walked across the room and stood 
by her husband, her hand on his shoulder. 

“John, dear,” she said, and her voice was quiet but firm; 
“I am going to carry out the spirit as well as the letter of 
Aunt Judith’s will. I shall do nothing with the money until 
I find out-” 

“Whether you have needs that I have not supplied?” 

There were wounded pride and resentment in Trevall’s 
question. 

“Needs that no one but—myself could supply.” 

Faith Trevall took her hand from the rigid shoulder as 
if she understood that it was not wanted there. 

“You desire to—to manage this money yourself, Faith?” 
Trevall asked, and the three faces in a line across the room 
were tense. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


23 


“Yes, John, for the present, at least.” 

“Then, Faith, I w'ash my hands of the unpleasant duty. 
In the future, should you realize your need of my advice, 
you must ask for it.” 

Almost it seemed as if Trevall said, “beg for it; implore it, 
penitently.” 

“I will, John dear.” Then, turning to the others, Faith 
said gently, “Such a sum of money is a great test of character. 
I hope your mother will not fail you, children.” 

Rose-Ann felt the hot tears rise to her eyes. 

“This whole scene,” she said, her voice trembling, “proves 
how wise that old aunt was. We ought to be fairly jubi¬ 
lant over Mother’s windfall instead of acting and looking as 
we do and taking the fun out of it for her.” 

But the subject was not referred to again for some time. 
Legal details were gone through and a subtle change came to 
Faith Trevall. Those nearest her could not describe it. 

“Mother is a person at last!” Rose-Ann exclaimed one day 
to Prudence. 

“And what, pray, was she before?” Prudence was really 
curious. The remark seemed to cast a possible light upon 
what all felt to be there. 

“I do not know exactly.” Rose-Ann looked confused. 
“Something the family thought she was—but which she 
wasn’t.” 

“Absurd!” Prudence retorted. 

“Well! wait and see, Prue. All I know is this: Father and 
I have a feeling that something is going to happen. I like 
the sensation but it’s the ruination of Daddy’s peace of mind. 
It’s like living in the house with a—with a plant that has 
never been catalogued.” 

“The plain English language does not seem to be sufficient 
for you, Rose-Ann.” Prudence was ill-natured. 

“Oh, it’s sufficient, Prue, if we do not limit it. But I say 
unto you, watch Mother!” 


CHAPTER III 


T HE law moves slowly no matter how impatient people 
may be, and Faith Trevall’s legacy passed through 
the mill in the usual way. 

Faith herself was calmly content. It was beautiful to 
think of the legacy as a proof of the dead woman’s faithful 
memory and love. 

“And after all the years of silence, too,” Faith thought, 
“she might so easily have misunderstood.” 

“If you find you need my advice you know you may depend 
upon me,” Trevall repeatedly said to his wife. It was a 
constant nudge. 

“Thank you, John, dear, but I suppose things are going 
the usual way. When all the knots are untied and the 
money quite my own, we will discuss it.” 

Rose-Ann chuckled at this—her mother had become the 
most absorbing interest in her life. The money hardly ever 
entered into her thought except as the vehicle of her mother’s 
self-expression. 

With the Townsends this was not so. They counted upon 
their possible “share” of the fortune with clear and definite 
purpose, although they never spoke of it except in the 
sanctity of their own small house in Essex. But the result 
of their secret sessions was the purchase of a Ford runabout 
and a half acre of ground in the sacred precincts of Middle 
Essex. 

Counting upon Faith’s generosity, without realizing the 
pathos and humour of the situation, they felt that their 
purgatorial experience was about over. 

And at this time Barry Compton appeared upon the scene. 
The shy, shrinking boy had become a tall, refined-looking 
man. There was a delicacy about Compton that accounted 


24 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


25 

for his frequent days of retirement which were indulged in 
from the beginning. 

“It’s all so new and exciting,” he explained to the neigh¬ 
bours who called at once. “I’ve lived such an abominably 
selfish life abroad that this sense of responsibility that is in 
the air affects me. Til soon get used to it and be one of you. 
I’m hoping to fit in soon; already I seem to feel at home.” 

This, as explanation for his frequent withdrawals. 

From the hour that Compton met Faith Trevall his heart 
went out to her in a peculiar way. She reminded him of his 
mother; she appealed to that quality in him that his mother’s 
desperate need and proud suffering had evolved. 

“She gives one the impression,” he thought, “of a bird 
escaped from its cage and afraid of its freedom.” 

He recalled the night of his father’s death, when from 
across the bed he and his mother had looked into each other’s 
eyes with that stricken and stealthy glance of relief that the 
death of the evil doer often calls forth. 

“Too late!” his mother’s soul seemed to say to his. 

And so it was that Barry Compton, in the house of his 
father, reached out to Faith Trevall in mute sympathy and 
understanding, and because Rose-Ann was her mother’s 
almost constant companion, Compton included her in his 
more intimate invitations. 

It was so natural for him to ask Mrs. Trevall to preside at 
his tea table once the old house opened its doors to informal 
afternoons, and Rose-Ann was the best possible aid to her 
mother. 

She handled the beautiful china with reverent touch, and 
Compton, quietly regarding her from his corner near the 
tea table, smiled and nodded whimsically, thinking that the 
girl was an embodiment of her mother’s spirit, with the 
limitations removed. 

“She will know what to do with her freedom,” he con¬ 
cluded, but as time went on and he knew John Trevall better, 
and realized the persisting undercurrent of New England 
ideals, he wondered about Rose-Ann. 

At that point he spiritually formed a silent partnership 


26 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


with Faith Trevall. He and she must make it possible for 
Rose-Ann to live her life in her own way! 

Naturally, with this sudden, unspoken compact holding 
them, small confidences leaked out. Almost guiltily, at 
first, then more easily as Compton proved himself a perfect 
interpreter of a word, a smile, a hurried, nervous laugh 
followed by a quick and loyal explanation. 

It was Compton who suggested, after a few weeks of after¬ 
noons by the fireside and short walks to historic spots, that 
Mrs. Trevall should take Rose-Ann abroad. 

So unexpected was this proposition that it never occurred 
to Faith Trevall that she had, in her quiet walks and talks 
with Compton, revealed herself. 

She shrank spiritually from him for a time as one might 
who feared a hypnotic influence. 

Barry did not press the point. He merely explained the 
suggestion by adding “to one who has travelled as I have, 
learned to know and love my neighbours overseas, it seems 
a natural conclusion that others must share my feelings. To 
me, a trip abroad is less exhausting and confusing than one 
to Boston, let alone New York.” 

For several days the subject was not mentioned again and 
then Faith Trevall asked simply: 

“Did you mean that Rose-Ann and I should go—alone 
abroad?” 

Compton laughed aloud at the panic he had evoked; but 
after an hour’s explanation he saw that his listener had 
ceased her fluttering and that her imagination was fired. 

And then Rose-Ann’s craving for college was mentioned— 
quite incidentally. 

“Let her decide after the year abroad,” Compton said; 
“college is not for everyone, and at twenty-three Rose-Ann 
will have got the bit between her teeth.” 

It was easy to laugh at this; it all seemed so simple. 

During this time of readjustment and new ties, Compton 
seriously endeavoured to cultivate John Trevall and the 
Townsends, but his friendship for Faith and Rose-Ann was 
an obstacle in the way that he could neither understand nor 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


2 7 


cope with. Trevall was suspicious and resentful, though 
both emotions were discreetly hid under a calm appearance of 
indifference. 

The friendly advances of Compton were attributed, not 
to pure kindness of heart, but to foreign superficiality. 

“The man has lost the simple sincerity of his American 
birthright,” Trevall remarked to his wife; “he has bartered 
it for the cheap and untrustworthy polish of another race. 
Good taste should prompt his withholding his lavish hospital¬ 
ity until he is better known.” 

The Townsends were ill at ease with Compton. With the 
best and most untiring efforts he never was able to win their 
confidence. 

“And I think,” Prudence confided to her husband, “that it 
is improper, under the circumstances, for Mother and Rose- 
Ann to accept his attentions. It is a direct insult to Father 
and to us! They are constantly at his house or wandering 
about the country with him. Have you seen his car?” 

Albert nodded to this and added: 

“The fellow is laughing on the sly at us. We amuse him. 
I can see through him.” 

To call Compton a “fellow,” relieved Townsend’s feelings. 

Compton’s man Cleaver also complicated the situation. 
His appearance, his very presence in the old house, was in¬ 
congruous and foreign. 

“So un-American. Such a reflection upon the good taste 
of Compton.” And so the remarks were handed on. 

Not being able to deal intelligently with the situation, 
Compton ignored it. He apparently assumed that his 
neighbours were his friends and acted accordingly. His 
manner toward Trevall was embarrassing to the last degree— 
to Trevall. What could one do with a man who insisted 
upon admiring virtues that one did not possess or even 
desire? Who called upon one in his private office at the 
Bank and created the damaging impression that he was 
learning American finance at the fountain head? 

The flattery silenced the resentment, but it stiffened 
Trevall’s private estimate of Compton. 


28 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


And then came the afternoon when Faith Trevall herself 
took up the subject of the legacy. 

It was Sunday and, as usual, Prudence and Albert had 
come for dinner. 

The meal had been perfect in every detail; with each 
course the spirits of the family had rallied from the depression 
caused by a dull church service, and with the dessert an air 
bordering on levity prevailed. 

“We are to have coffee in the library,” Faith announced, 
suddenly rising; “the table can then be cleared and we can 
take our time without delaying the work in the kitchen.” 

Trevall looked alarmed. 

“Is this a—a foreign innovation?” he asked. 

“No, but a sensible, humane one,” Faith was actually 
leading, physically as well as spiritually, her family from the 
room. 

The coffee was already awaiting them—this was evidently 
a well-worked-out plan and one about which the family had 
not been consulted. 

Faith, with the grace acquired at Compton’s afternoons, 
poured the coffee into the exquisite old cups and, quite as 
naturally, Rose-Ann passed them. 

And then, while the cups were poised midway between 
saucer and lips, Faith remarked: 

“About that legacy. Everything is settled now, isn’t it, 
John dear?” 

Trevall quickly set his cup in the saucer. 

“Judging by the letter you showed me from the lawyers,” 
he said quietly, “I should say that the legacy is quite your 
own, Faith.” 

“Mine? Just mine?” Certainly a marked change had 
come over Faith Trevall. Six months ago she could not 
possibly have assumed the manner that enveloped her now 
with poise and smiling charm. 

“Isn’t it wonderful—the feeling of power?” she said, and 
then quickly, as if she feared they might misunderstand her, 
she went on: “and I have really worked out quite an elaborate 
plan. Barry Compton helped me. The dear fellow came 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


29 


just in time. Only a person who was not in any way con¬ 
cerned could have helped so wisely.” 

Trevall drew himself up, but made no remark. Instead 
he returned to his coffee, but Prudence spoke: 

“Mother! how could you permit a stranger-” 

“Barry Compton is no stranger!” Rose-Ann interjected, 
going across the room to her mother; “he is a bosom friend.” 

It was always possible for Trevall to express himself to his 
younger daughter when he was annoyed. 

“Do you, too, refer to Mr. Compton so informally, Rose- 
Ann?” he asked. 

“No, Daddy, usually I leave off the Compton. He asked 
me to. One could not keep up formalities with him.” 

The group took this flippant reply in silence for a moment 
and then Trevall turned to his wife. 

“That you should consult any one before your husband in 
so delicate a matter, Faith, surprises and—hurts me deeply! 
It is extremely humiliating.” 

“I am sorry, John, that you should feel so about it. 
Barry Compton does not seem a stranger; some people are 
like that, you know. They seem always to have belonged.” 

“Ridiculous!” Trevall reached for the cream. Faith 
did not heed the interruption. 

“It was one day when I happened to be down there alone. 
Barry was showing me his mother’s photographs—she was 
the great thing in Barry’s life, I soon discovered: he says he 
sees all women through her. After awhile, and I really do 
not recall how it came about, I was telling him—well, about 
the legacy and then—it almost frightened me the way he 
cleared things. Every detail was—well, John—it seemed 
settled.” 

“I am not interested in Compton’s private affairs,” 
Trevall said calmly. “Kindly omit them.” 

Rose-Ann laughed. She saw her mistake at once, for her 
father turned upon her. This time angrily. 

“I cannot and will not bear with your behaviour, Rose- 
Ann. You and your mother seem bent upon making the 
rest of us ridiculous.” 


30 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“I’m sorry, Father.” Then Rose-Ann looked at Pru¬ 
dence’s pasty face; it was crimson; at Albert’s efforts to 
appear neutral, as an in-law should, and she laughed again. 

“I’m nervous,” she apologized. “It is enough to make 
me nervous the way we are acting about what Mother has a 
perfect right to do. It shows how necessary something like 
this legacy was.” 

There was nothing to say to this impertinence, and after a 
moment Faith Trevall went calmly on, sipping her coffee 
between her remarks. 

“Of course, John dear, I always meant to consult you as 
soon as I could see clearly myself; I would take no action 
without your advice, but this seemed so entirely a thing I 
was responsible for—this gift of Aunt Judith’s. You never 
understood her; that was natural; but I did, and at the last 
I realize she meant to prove to me that she did not resent all 
the years of silence and my—my loyalty to you, John. She 
was so unselfish that I owe her some consideration. I had to 
understand about myself, too, John. I wondered if I had 
any ungratified desires—and if I did I felt as if I should deal 
with them for Aunt Judith’s sake—and yours, too.” 

“Absurd!” Trevall set the rare china down with a 
rattling jar. “I suppose Mr. Barry Compton got at the root 
of the matter? After laying your family affairs open for his 
approval or disapproval—he discovered ungratified desires. 
Faith, I do not wonder at your children’s amazement.” 

Certainly Prudence’s expression gave cause for this remark, 
but Rose-Ann’s lowered head saved her from betrayal. 

“It all seemed quite natural when it occurred,” Faith said 
wistfully; “I am sorry that you all see it differently. A 
stranger, or one who has been away, often gets a new light 
on a problem that helps tremendously, and Barry is singularly 
sympathetic. 

“He feels as I do about my responsibility toward the 
money. He feels that only by literally accepting this 
legacy as my own can I be faithful to the spirit in which it was 
given. 

“I want to share it with you all, just as I have always 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


3 i 


shared things; as you, John, have shared with me. It is 
the doing of it myself that matters. Barry suggested that I 
give, as I might give a Christmas present, ten thousand 
dollars apiece to you, Prudence and Rose-Ann, and that I 
keep twenty thousand—for myself to—” Faith’s lips trem¬ 
bled—“to play with.” 

John Trevall and the Townsends were beyond the relief 
of words, but Rose-Ann again forgot to control herself. 

“Are you making this up, duckie?” she said, her eyes 
shining with excitement, “or did he go on and root up some 
hidden desires of yours?” 

Faith turned her eyes upon the girl with relief. 

“Well, he actually did,” she said. “I confess this sounds 
absurd here, with you all, but while Barry and I talked it 
over, it was the simplest thing imaginable. 

“He found out how much I want to travel and see things, 
like Europe and—and other places. 

“He says many women travel alone, now, and that it is 
perfectly safe—but I would like to take you, Rose-Ann.” 

Faith seemed to be speaking only to Rose-Ann. The 
others, for the moment, did not exist; in a way, she had 
bought them off; won the right to consider herself. 

Rose-Ann’s eyes filled with tears; some tremendous thing 
was happening. She knew that it was carrying her and her 
mother over a path they could never retrace. She sensed 
the danger, but saw that her mother did not. That they 
were together gave her a power to act with some assurance. 

She lifted her head and her serious eyes rested on her father. 

“Isn’t it queer,” she said, “how the simplest things can 
get people in snarls if the things are a bit out of the ordinary? 

“Now the idea of Mother having money quite her own has 
just knocked us about and we cannot get an honest view. I 
think we ought to buck Mother up, not take any of the fun 
from her, and as for talking with Mr. Compton—one natur¬ 
ally does talk to him. I wager even Prue and Albert would 
be opening up their souls to him in a half hour if they 
would only get acquainted.” 

This amazing onslaught had the effect of a dash of cold 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


32 

water. It brought the family to its senses, but the reaction 
was anything but pleasant. 

“I hope Prudence feels no need of going to a perfect 
stranger for intimate talks,” Townsend remarked: then seeing 
the flush on Faith TrevalFs face, and realizing, as he usually 
did, that when he ventured in the open he but laid himself 
open to attack, he hurriedly dodged. 

“I mean, of course, that a young woman must be more 
careful of such things than a woman of assured position and 
knowledge of the world.” 

Rose-Ann raised both her hands in a gesture of pushing 
Albert’s volubility aside, then she laughingly said: 

“It’s all right, Bertie. Mother doesn’t mind the sugges¬ 
tion.” 

During all this side play John Trevall sat silent—tapping 
energetically the arms of the chair. 

He had come to see what Rose-Ann saw; he appreciated 
the importance of dealing with this family problem in a 
different spirit, but he resented his younger daughter’s keen 
handling of the situation and that subtle and growing power 
of hers to take command. 

Finally he spoke, addressing his wife: 

“I do not suppose, my dear, that by any possibility you 
are joking? This money idea has rather upset us all.” He 
magnanimously desired to give his wife an open exit from 
her mad proposition back to the safe shelter of things as 
they had been. When she realized how she might estrange 
herself, she surely would not carry this nonsense any further. 

But Faith rocked peacefully in her chair, glancing now and 
then at Rose-Ann to make sure she was spiritually and 
physically near. 

“It’s no joke, John,” she said, “though I see I have 
bungled sadly by being so abrupt. We have got, I fear, in a 
rut. There is no real reason why I should not take a holiday, 
now is there? And this money makes it quite an easy and 
practical thing to do. 

“I have never realized that I did want this sort of thing, 
at least not since my marriage, but I suppose the desire 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


33 

has been lying dormant all the happy years we have had 
together. 

“John, I wish that you could see it as I do!” The dear 
creature was positively pleading. It hurt Rose-Ann to 
hear her; she knew that her mother was firm, but that she 
yearned for the approval of them she loved. That was the 
way Rose-Ann herself felt about things. 

“This Barry Compton must be an ass!” Trevall was 
aroused and angry—he rarely indulged in epithets. 

“I should say so!” Prudence agreed, her face flaming. 

“I do not suppose,” Trevall went on, “that Compton 
could comprehend the selfishness of this proposed pampering 
of your—what shall I say, folly? As a family we have 
shared everything. I have had no pleasure or recreation but 

what you have had a part and now you propose to-” He 

paused, for the expression on his wife’s face dismayed him. 

“John, dear, if you needed all the money, you know I would 
gladly give it up. I am proposing to share it now—you 
have shared everything, dear, but can you not see, you have 
always directed the way of things and now”— there were 
tears in the sweet eyes—“I just wanted to do that myself.” 

“We will not discuss that,” Trevall said coldly; “if you 
imply that I have been a hard and masterful husband and 
father, I have nothing more to say. My life of sustained 
duty and devotion must speak for itself/’ 

Faith Trevall gave a little sigh. 

“I wish I could have said this all better,” she began 
quietly; “ and of course the details of arranging the money and 
my trip will take a long time. We will get used to the idea 
and be very, very happy about it before the hour comes for 
separation. And—” she brightened as one does who watches 
the sun break through a cloud—“ here comes Barry Compton!” 

The large gray car swept up the drive and Compton 
stepped slowly from it. In a moment he was among them 
smiling, more with his eyes than his lips, and reaching out a 
lean, friendly hand. 

There are some people who by sheer force of personality 
exact the best from others. Compton was such a one. 



34 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Even Trevall rose, as he always did, to the subconscious 
appeal, but because they could not rise, Prudence and 
Albert became restive, getting what satisfaction they could 
from an almost sullen silence. 

Not for the chance of regaining what Trevall inwardly 
believed Compton had taken from him by his play upon 
Faith's imagination would he allow Compton to suspect his 
state of mind. He did not doubt for an instant his own 
conclusions—the indignity with which he had been treated— 
but for that very reason he relegated the matter to a position 
that Compton could neither suspect nor arraign. 

Rose-Ann greeted Compton as she might a deliverer who 
had rescued them all at a critical juncture. 

“Coffee, Barry?" The familiarity made Trevall wince, 
but he held his poise. 

“Thanks, Rose-Ann. Black, please. No sugar. I like 
the last cup in the pot—it is always stronger." 

Then while he sipped the coffee Compton's eyes roved 
amusedly over the small group, and there was not a person 
present who did not realize that he had a keen understanding 
of the situation. 

An ugly thought entered Trevall's mind. Had the visit 
been planned? Had his wife so far forgotten herself that in 
her desire to assert her position she had conspired—no other 
word so fully described it—with this stranger? 

If Trevall could sit a bit more rigid, he did so now. The 
apparently simple affair was assuming preposterous pro¬ 
portions, but that did not occur to him. 

Meanwhile Compton was talking delightfully of places 
across the sea. 

“I could never have so fully appreciated the land of my 
birth," he was saying, “had I not this knowledge of other 
lands. It's like never being able to estimate yourself until 
you have experiences that test you. 

“There is something, a kind of spiritual homesickness, 
I suppose, that clings to one's own land, but the real joy of 
it all is to find out which is your own land. Just being 
born in a certain corner doesn’t prove anything." 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


35 


With this Trevall immediately and firmly took issue. 

“But how do you know?” Compton retorted cheerfully. 

“There are some things fundamental,” said Trevall. 

“Undoubtedly, but they have to be proved. Now for 
instance”—Compton passed his cup toward Rose-Ann, 
smiling in her eyes as he did so, remarking, “It’s stronger 
now? Good.” Then: 

“Now for instance, England almost got me. I seemed 
wedged there. It was home to me, but in the end I realized 
that it was the home of my grandparents—a wonderful 
place to return to for holidays, visits, and refreshment; but 
the land of my father was really my land; an inheritance 
more direct; more demanding. 

“I am realizing this every day.” 

“Exactly,” Trevall nodded, “and you’ve wasted long 
years coming to a—a fundamental fact.” 

“Wasted?” Compton’s gaze seemed to widen and travel 
back over great areas. “Wasted? My dear sir, wait until 
your wife and daughter return.” 

They were cornered—all of them. And then quite as 
if there had been no possible barrier the conversation became 
personal, intimate. It gradually took the form of planning 
details. In order to preserve his dignity, Trevall joined in. 

“It sounds like a trip to Boston,” Prudence remarked, a 
bit breathlessly. She felt as if Compton were dragging her. 

“Less exhausting,” Compton turned toward her genially, 
“no jams nor subways—I find these do weary me beyond 
words. It’s more easy going over there.” 

“Umph!”—this came from Townsend, who desired to make 
his presence felt but could think of no pertinent remark. 

Compton nodded toward him. 

“Exactly,” he said. The trouble with us New Englanders 
is that we are so damnably set in our ways that any break 
seems epoch-making. This is not so. When Mrs. Trevall 
and Rose-Ann come home, we will realize that except for 
some new frocks and a wider vision, nothing has happened.” 

Townsend somehow felt flattered by the attention given 
to his ejaculation. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


36 

When Compton departed the family looked rather blankly 
at each other. At last Trevall spoke. 

“It appears that your arrangements, my dear, had been 
fairly well developed before you took your husband and chil¬ 
dren into your confidence.” 

“John, dear, how can I explain—I truly did not compre¬ 
hend this myself. I suppose that what seems so vital to 
us, because it has never come into our lives before—is a mere 
bagatelle to Barry Compton.” 

“We will not discuss the matter further, Faith. After all 
the question is yours to settle, I admit that, but there are 
some sentiments that cannot be put into words; if they 
are not felt they must be disregarded. However,” and 
there was a cold finality in the words, “I must refuse to 
accept my share of your generosity. Certainly in your 
determination to carry out the spirit of your aunt’s will, 
you overlook her disapproval of me! I could not accept 
anything with which Miss Judith Adams had to do.” 

A dull silence followed. Then Prudence and Albert rose 
awkwardly, bade their parents good-bye, and left the room, 
followed by Rose-Ann. 

“Whew!” Rose-Ann emitted the word explosively. 
“Has any one the least idea what has happened to us all?” 
she asked. 

“What always happens,” Prudence replied, “when 
strangers are permitted to be familiar with what does not 
concern them. I think it is unpardonable, Rose-Ann.” 

“What is it , just, Prue, that Barry has found out? We, 
as we are; or we, as we wish to seem ?” Rose-Ann was serious. 

“I quite agree with Prudence.” Albert thrust his arms 
into the sleeves of his overcoat. “A family owes its first 
duty to itself.” 

“Well,” Rose-Ann sighed and opened her arms as if to get 
a freer breath; “it almost makes me think that as a family we 
need airing.” Then: 

“Prue, I warned you. You see what has happened in 
this house.” 


CHAPTER IV 


T HE winter settled down early that year in Middle 
Essex. A white, dry snow came from the North in 
late October and decided to call its brood after it. 
Storm upon storm and then days of blue skies and solemn 
stillness. It was a season that tested even the oldest in¬ 
habitants, and poor Barry Compton viewed it with positive 
awe. He seldom went out, and welcomed, almost passionately, 
the few friends who came to him. 

“ Cleaver,” he said one morning when the snow lay level 
with the dining-room windows, “another year and we must 
have house-parties week in and out. Folks to stay and 
make merry: folks to keep us company.” 

“Yes, sir.” Cleaver set a tray before Compton. “I dare 
say we could entice people to come—and stay,” he added. 

“Cleaver, that doesn’t sound complimentary. Muffins, 
eh? That’s right, do not spare the butter. Coffee strong? 
Thanks. Never mind, Cleaver, if it does keep me awake at 
night, it also keeps me awake in the day. 

“Cleaver, it’s strange our nice little Miss Rose-Ann has 
deserted us. I should think she could clip it over these 
drifts and not sink in. 

“The mother, so the farmer tells me, is ill, sir.” 

Compton started. 

“Ill?” he asked. “What is the matter?” 

“I think—the winter is too much for her.” Cleaver put 
more coal on the fire. “The doctor went past an hour ago, 
sir.” 

“I wonder!” Compton’s face twitched. “She ought to 
be used to all kinds of winters. I must get to her.” 

“No, sir.” Cleaver was firm. “No, sir, you cannot 
attempt it. It would be madness, sir.”, 

37 


38 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


There was a pause. Then Compton spoke. 

“Cleaver, I haven’t had a bad attack in over two years. 
That is longer than any other interval. If one should come 
back now your task of hiding me would be comparatively 
light—the heavy drifts, too, are an excuse for leaving us 
alone. 

“Strange, Cleaver, that I cannot seem to get under my 
neighbours’ crust. They accept me, but I do not agree with 
them; they cannot digest me and—I need them so!” 

Cleaver, because deeply moved, appeared less responsive 
than usual. 

“There is no accounting for tastes, sir, and the American 
taste is peculiar, sir.” 

Compton laughed wearily. Then: 

“Should it become necessary to account for a long absence, 
Cleaver, have you made arrangements; got an excuse ready?” 

Cleaver removed the tray, taking mental note that his 
master had not touched food but had drained every drop of 
coffee. 

“I have had the small room in the tower, sir, prepared.” 

“And what is my role—illness ?—or-” 

“No, sir. You are writing a book, sir. They all do when 
they come to America. You cannot be disturbed, sir. 
When the mood for writing seizes you, sir.” 

Compton threw back his head and laughed a mirthless 
laugh as if his soul revolted from the humour of Cleaver’s ruse. 

“You’re a master hand as a plotter, Cleaver. I’m no 
end grateful. 

“Send up to the Trevall house and get the last word. 

“I wish”— this more to himself than to Cleaver; “I wish 
they had got away before the spiritual frost blighted them. 
God! how relentless virtue can be.” 

Cleaver had passed from the room; Compton went to the 
window and looked out at the dazzling, unbroken whiteness. 
It seemed an empty, hard world where he alone waited for— 
what? 

Almost it seemed as if he saw a shadow approaching over 
the glistening, unbroken wastes. His shadow; his infirmity. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


39 


The haunting horror that had been his since early boyhood, 
the spectre that had been hidden from all but Cleaver, his 
parents, and physicians. The shadow that had denied him 
all that his nature craved, health and the sane and beautiful 
things that youth expects as its due. There had been a mad 
time in Compton’s first youth when he had almost brought 
himself to gamble with his shadow. During the spells of 
comparative well-being he had wondered how it would be if 
he married, took the blind chance. Cures were possible; the 
best of physicians granted that; some woman might love 
him well enough to risk the chance with him; he would not 
deceive her; he could give her all that wealth could procure. 
He would demand little outside the bare joy of companion¬ 
ship, the wonderful opportunity of service to another who 
belonged to him. And there had come into his life, just then, 
a girl whose high courage and loveliness tempted him sorely, 
but his spectre overpowered him at the crucial moment of 
weakness. There had been a worse attack than usual. He 
came out of the isolation wan and convinced! There must 
be no chances taken. That much of the man he could be— 
and Cleaver swore never to desert him. 

And so the inevitable was acknowledged and utilized in 
a masterful way during the periods of health. The pleasures 
that could be obtained from travel, music, and art were 
absorbed. When the blows fell, Cleaver took command and 
was prolific in devices to hide the truth that his master was an 
epileptic. 

That the rich and handsome Barry Compton did not 
marry was for a time a topic of discussion, but since all men 
do not marry the subject became less and less interesting. 
There were excuses, too, for Compton’s celibacy: first, his 
father’s ill health and then death; his mother’s dependence 
upon him, and lastly her death. After that Compton was 
so desperately lonely and broken that a new element entered 
in—the second curse bequeathed to him by his inheritance. 

Intemperance in one form or another had marked the 
Compton line. Drink, women, and a general lack of moral 
fibre. During his youth Barry Compton was so keen a 


4 o 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


sufferer from his father’s hours of degeneracy—hours more 
or less skilfully hid from the public—that his own character 
seemed to gain strength and vitality, but the physical weak¬ 
ness that developed into epilepsy threatened to mark the last 
of the Comptons as the worst of all. The struggles of the 
boy to hold to the best in him while beating off the worst was 
the tragedy that all but drove Mrs. Compton to madness. 
She had borne superbly her husband’s degradation; his 
lapses of loyalty; had lived abroad and made no cry; but 
when she realized at last that her son, giving promise of a bet¬ 
ter manhood and future, was a prey to the evil disease that 
suddenly attacked him, her hold on life gave way. 

Then Barry saved her by his appeal—his desperate appeal. 
She must fight with him—not leave him alone. 

To the day of her death, which occurred several years 
after her husband’s, Mrs. Compton was her son’s constant 
companion. She was happier, too, than she had ever been, 
for there had come periods of hope; doctor after doctor strove 
to effect a cure; there were years when success seemed at 
hand and—then Mary Compton died. 

With the shock and sense of desolation Compton reacted 
perilously, and his disease took a stronger hold upon him. 
As if that were not sufficient, the lurking devil that had but 
bided his time fell upon him. When the fits of epilepsy 
gave warning, Barry resorted to drink. Like a condemned 
man, he drugged his senses to lessen his agony. 

Cleaver never wavered in his faithful guardianship. As 
far as he dared he fought against Compton’s weakness. 
When he was worsted, Cleaver shielded and cared for him, 
and in the dejected hours that followed the attacks he rose 
to Compton’s needs, sought to give him courage and com¬ 
fort, and lied to him as to the details of the sodden periods 
that marked the spells of disease aggravated by liquor. 

Strange to say, Compton in his sane moments could still 
battle. The good in him died hard. 

“When I can no longer fight,” he often told Cleaver, “I’ll 
end it. The last vestige of decency in me shall be devoted 
to that. I’ll save it—like the last bullet.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


4i 


Then coming to America had had a remarkable effect 
upon Compton. The complete change; the subtle demands 
of place, people, and temperaments seemed to call forth all 
that was fine and aspiring in him, and once again hope 
flamed high. 

Something of this was passing through Compton’s mind 
as he stood at the window looking out at the white emptiness. 
There was danger in the mood. Loneliness was gripping 
him; a depression caused by the news of Mrs. TrevalFs ill¬ 
ness. He had not realized what her friendship and Rose- 
Ann’s had meant to him—they had been an appeal to that 
craving of his for service. He had joined forces with them 
against a vague something that could not be voiced, but 
which they all understood. 

“I must get to the Travails’,” murmured Compton at last. 

Nothing on earth at that moment seemed so urgent. 
The impulse was like a divine urge for self-preservation, but 
again Compton was defeated. Word was brought to him 
that Mrs. Trevall was too ill to see visitors, but that Rose- 
Ann would come to him when she could be spared. 

And in the old Trevall house quiet and order reigned. 
No small duty of polishing and dusting was omitted below; 
while in her bedroom above Faith Trevall lay battling for 
her life—if one could call the calm, cheerful patience a 
battle. 

Prudence came and ordered affairs in kitchen and dining 
room; a day nurse took charge above; John Trevall went to 
and from the Bank while Rose-Ann rested during the day in 
order to be with her mother at night. 

Rose-Ann had suddenly developed a positive genius for her 
task. 

“I find Mrs. Trevall in a much better condition when her 
younger daughter remains alone with her,” the nurse had 
explained to the doctor. So Rose-Ann was permitted to 
share the dark hours and give the comfort that she alone 
could give. 

Strange comfort it was on both sides. Fully aware of the 
situation, its dangers and slight chances, neither Mrs. 


42 THE TENTH WOMAN 

Trevall nor Rose-Ann referred to it. They accepted it and— 
ignored it. 

“It's up to this heart of mine, ,, Faith had whispered the 
first night of Rose-Ann’s vigil; “typhoid can do tricky 
things to hearts, dear, but hearts can outwit it at times. 
Now let us talk, before I go to sleep, about our trip.” 

With a hideous agony of fear gripping her, Rose-Ann 
brought nightly to the sickroom the maps, folders, and time 
tables that she and her mother, like half-guilty children, had 
accumulated and had hid for their hours together. 

Once Mrs. Trevall’s eyes rested on the carefully arranged 
papers, she seemed content. Sometimes she would speak 
vaguely of a special spot that Barry Compton had described. 

“I should like the warmth and sun, Rose-Ann, for a time. 
It is queer, but I do not think I have been really warm any 
winter in Middle Essex since I was very, very young.” 

“We’ll go straight there!” Rose-Ann let her pencil point 
rest on the spot that Compton had described as “melted 
gold and fragrant wine.” 

“Do you think we could sail in March, Rose-Ann?” 

“Surely, ducky dear. There’s a splendid steamer leaving 
Boston on the third of March.” 

“It is January now.” Then Faith Trevall closed her eyes 
and murmured “abundant time in which to get well, and get 
ready.” 

It is a terrible thing for the young to undergo the strain 
through which Rose-Ann was then passing. Her black, 
clutching fear, hid by a determination to ignore it, almost 
broke the girl’s strength; the routine that her father and 
Prudence followed did not give her support or help—it 
seemed cold, brutal, to her, and the only person in the world 
she wanted to see was Barry Compton, and she wondered 
why he did not come. She never knew the purely conven¬ 
tional replies her father had sent to the oft-repeated offers of 
help from the next house. 

Every morning Prudence, crisp and capable, entered her 
mother’s room. 

“All right, Mother?” she asked. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 43 

Prudence’s idea of sickroom manner was a brusque cheer¬ 
fulness. 

‘‘Quite all right, daughter. How is Albert?” 

“As usual, fine and well.” 

Then Prudence departed and devoted her day to seeing 
that the machinery of the house ran smoothly. 

Perhaps the Marthas of the world are underestimated. 

Before leaving the house for the Bank, John Trevall spent 
a half hour with his wife and another half hour before he 
retired at night. 

If apprehension held place in his heart, he gave no sign. 
He did not ignore the possibilities, but he was never one to 
anticipate evil. 

Holding his wife’s thin, hot hand, his stern mouth softened. 
In his way, in the way of his forbears, he loved and honoured 
her. He had been faithful to her in word and spirit; had 
done his entire duty—as he saw it. He had nothing to 
regret as he looked at the face on the pillow; he could even 
forgive and overlook the slight, foolish ripple the coming of 
Compton and the Aunt’s legacy had created. 

Not even a woman like Faith Trevall was proof against the 
flattery of a man like Compton, Trevall admitted tolerantly 
and that was past now. Not a cloud rested between him and 
his wife. 

“There is nothing I can do for you, Faith?” he would ask, 
tapping her hand as he often tapped the arms of his chair. 

“No, John dear”— Faith slowly withdrew her hand— 
“nothing, dear, nothing.” 

“Shall I read to you, Faith?” 

Faith saw that her husband wanted to read, so she said in a 
whisper: 

“Yes, John. There’s a new book on the stand.” 

But while Trevall read, Faith was not obliged to listen. 
Indeed, there were times when her mind wandered sadly and 
her thoughts were beyond her control. At such moments 
her husband seemed like a stranger to her, she puckered her 
brow as if the strangeness puzzled her. In a weak way she 
resented him. Why should he insist upon reading to her? 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


44 

Why should he be there at all? And then Faith Trevall 
shivered and came back, mentally, to the fine old room with 
its ancient furniture and brass and irons—how they glittered! 
—and to the handsome, upright man beside her, reading on 
and on in tones that were firm and even. 

And there were other hours when Faith Trevall looked 
back at her life as the drowning are said to do—looked at it 
as she might upon the life of another. She had made so many 
mistakes. Things would have been so different had she 
been wiser in time. And then her life seemed to merge into 
Rose-Ann’s life. Rose-Ann was in danger; she must be 
warned. 

Something was loosed in Faith Trevall. The habit of 
self-effacement, the sense of dull content, gave place to a new 
determination that had had its beginning in her decision 
about Aunt Judith’s money. Duty was a terrible thing and 
many sided. There was duty to others and to one’s self; one 
must decide. There might be a choice of “others”—Rose- 
Ann, for instance, must be warned. Warned! Poor Faith 
saw only her own mistakes and they clutched and held her; 
she would start feverishly and John, if he were there, would 
pause in his reading. 

“You are not interested, Faith?” he asked in that tone 
that implied a lack of appreciation. 

“Oh, yes, I am, John dear.” 

And so she was, but not in the words that fell from his lips. 
She was interested in Rose-Ann’s danger. That interest 
soon absorbed Faith Trevall and excluded all others. It 
obsessed her and became compelling. When the fever rose, 
the interest rose; when the deadly weakness made her faint, 
her last conscious thought was of Rose-Ann’s “danger.” 

It became a fixed and tangible thing. It was none the 
less so because it was shrouded and muffled. It was all the 
more dangerous because it could not be dealt with openly. 

“Delirium!” said the doctor, and the shades in the lower 
rooms were lowered. 

And then, one night when Rose-Ann came on duty, Faith 
Trevall smiled in quite the old way at her. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


45 


“I am better, dear child,” she said faintly. And so she 
was. She had, during the day, got the best of the haunting 
danger; had torn its disguises from it and with quickened 
vision understood the true purport. The trouble had all 
come from confusing big things with little ones. She had 
grasped at last the truth and could deal with it. 

Rose-Ann’s eyes rested upon her mother. 

“Oh, you are better, ducky!” she said relievedly, and the 
agony lessened. “I can see that you are. Now nestle down 
like a dear while I brush your hair and sing to you. I have 
a new song especially created for good mothers who obey 
their wise daughters.” 

Mrs. Trevall smiled contentedly. Rose-Ann could always 
amuse her with her nonsense and there was magic in the 
touch of the quick, light fingers. 

The brushing of the long, fine hair began and questions 
and answers in half whispers. 

“You have all the folders, dear?” 

“Yes, darling, and some new ones. Do I pull?” 

“No. You seem to be drawing all the ache and heat from 
my head.” 

Then, so quietly that for a moment Rose-Ann thought 
that she must have misunderstood: 

“I heard the doctor tell the nurse to-day that to-morrow 
would be the crisis!” 

Rose-Ann paused; the truth sank in and she stood as if 
frozen. 

“But one passes through crises, dear girl. I only meant 
that to-night is a bit more important than usual, you see.” 

One does strange things at a critical moment. Rose-Ann 
laid the brush on the table, gathered all the folders together, 
placed them beside it as if they were done with, and then 
spoke: 

“You must have misunderstood them, Mother,” she said 
in short, gasping breaths. “They would not say such a thing 
in your presence, dear.” 

“They were in the hall. They thought I was asleep.” 

A silence fell in the dim room and strange shadows flickered 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


46 

on the old walls. They were like wraiths touching reverently 
the sacred furniture, candles, and glistening andirons; some¬ 
times a long, grim shadow would lie across the bed of the 
strange woman resting there. 

The strange woman! She had always been a stranger in 
her husband’s house. Faith Trevall realized it at last; she 
had never made a place for herself and she held the omission 
as a sin; a great wrong to Rose-Ann. 

“You are not going to fail me now, Rose-Ann.” 

This was a command, not a question. 

“No, Mother.” 

How entirely they understood each other! Their lips might 
trifle with words, but their souls realized and accepted truth. 

“Does it hurt you to talk, Mother?” 

Somehow Rose-Ann felt there was much to say, and only a 
brief time in which to say it. 

“It does not hurt me to talk, dear, and it is so blessed to 
think that we can talk woman to woman, Rose-Ann.” 

“Yes, Mother.” No longer were they mother and daugh¬ 
ter. Their eyes met and held. 

“My dear, I have done you a great wrong.” 

“You, Mother? Why, you could not wrong any one ex¬ 
cept yourself, perhaps.” 

Rose-Ann knelt beside the bed and held the thin worn 
hands that were clasped close together. 

“Rose-Ann, I have wronged—many; many.” The words 
fell into the silence. Then: 

“I thought at the first that it was my duty; a proof of my 
love to keep silent. At least I tried to force myself to be¬ 
lieve it—it was the easiest way.” 

“You mean,” Rose-Ann understood—“when you—sacri¬ 
ficed yourself—utterly?” 

“It wasn’t sacrifice, Rose-Ann. I tried to call it that but 
it wasn’t. 

“I gave up my people—and once a woman does that, she 
wrongs love. I wronged your father, Rose-Ann. I gave up 
other things, they were small things; they did not seem to 
matter, but they were links in a chain that I was forging. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


47 


“You must believe this, Rose-Ann, or you will be unjust to 
your father. He was always dealing with a woman he did 
not know. You see, I loved music and dancing and joyous 
things. Had I spoken my true self I could have had them. 
Everyone would have been happier. Your father needed 
them, but he did not realize it. That was my duty—to 
insist! If I had given them up and not cared, it would not 
have mattered—but I cared , Rose-Ann. The caring ate its 
way in—instead of out. 

“When the babies came and died, I thought God was 
punishing me. Then when Prudence came and—stayed—I 
was so glad, and I meant to struggle for her sake, but it was 
too late—she was like the something in your father that I 
should have helped him conquer. During the years follow¬ 
ing Prudence’s birth something in me nearly died. 

“And then you came and I saw that the want in me, the 
thing that I had hid and called by untrue names, was alive 
in you. You would have to pay or be killed by it.” 

A faintness fell upon Faith Trevall. She almost stopped 
breathing. 

Rose-Ann reached for a glass of medicine on the table and 
put a few drops of the liquid on the trembling lips. 

She did not seem frightened; she did not seem to feel at 
all. Mechanically she acted and waited. 

Waited—for the scroll to be further unrolled. She knew 
part of the poor tragic tale, but something remained; 
something her mother must reveal and she learn and 
remember. 

Mrs. Trevall rallied. 

“Thanks, darling. It’s queer—the slipping spells. I 
always seem to fall on that lovely spot that Barry described 
as ‘melted gold’.” 

“But you come back—Mother—you come back.” 

“Oh! yes, I come back. Rose-Ann!” 

“Yes, dear heart.” 

“It is cowardly for a woman to hide her real self—and 
then blame others. I have let people think your father was 
overbearing—I have seen it in their eyes. Had I in the 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


48 

beginning made him understand, all would have been well. 
There has always been great love between us, but no real 
knowledge. ,, 

The panting voice paused, and Rose-Ann’s heart hardened 
within her. 

“My little girl, you must never hide yourself and permit 
others to see you as you are not! At least give them the 
opportunity of seeing the true self. 

“You may find happiness; it may be your choice to sacri¬ 
fice much—but it can only be a beautiful and helpful thing 
when others know the real you. Unless you do this, the 
thing that you have inherited from me will eat into your 
soul, and go on hurting others and killing the good you owe 
to them.” 

The clock ticked away in the gloom. The fire on the 
hearth was all but dead, and the long shadows grew still as 
if they were listening. 

“Oh, it has hurt me so, Rose-Ann, to see you resent your 
father. My child, he has never suspected that I rebelled. 
It was my part to give to him what he lacked—and I did not! 
And you, poor child, have lived what I should have con¬ 
quered before your birth.” 

Rose-Ann rested her face close to her mother’s. She sought 
to comfort, but her mind acted slowly. Presently she said: 

“Thank you, Mother. You have done a great thing for 
me. You have let me see all your hidden life. Mother, I 
will try and not make the mistake. I understand. Believe 
me, dear, I understand.” 

“Oh, Rose-Ann—I knew you would—you are young; 
it is not too late, dear. I think we can manage that crisis— 
to-morrow. 

“And, Rose-Ann?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“College or travel or both—if you want them. Bariy 
will explain. He is such a friend. I think he, more than 
any one else—helped me to see wherein I had failed. I could 
not have accepted so freely had he not shown me that.” 

Faith Trevall passed the crisis, if not triumphantly at 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


49 


least with courage that gave her family hope, and took from 
Rose-Ann’s heart the heavy load of doubt and fear that the 
night of confession had left. 

“I let her use her pitiful strength trying to excuse what 
others had done to her, when I should have made her rest.” 

Over and over again Rose-Ann repeated the accusation 
to herself; “as if anything mattered—but her.” 

A week passed. The shades in the lower rooms were 
raised and the daily routine was again taken up. 

One evening, Prudence and Rose-Ann were in the sickroom 
and John Trevall was reading, when suddenly he asked: 

“Are you interested and listening, Faith?” 

There was no reply. Faith, her eyes resting upon the face 
of Rose-Ann, had slipped so quietly and unobtrusively out of 
life, that it almost seemed as if the reading need not be 
interrupted! 

Life went on dully after the first shock. 

Trevall was at home for a week receiving callers in the 
darkened library. All the house was in gloom. Prudence 
stumbled about in the darkness that she insisted upon as a 
mark of respect to the quiet dead who had so loved the light 
and warmth of day. 

On the day of the funeral the white crust of the snow was 
broken for a trail leading from the old house on the hill to the 
graveyard below. 

Then the shades were rolled up and John Trevall planned 
to go to the Bank and Prudence spent only the afternoons 
in her father’s house. 

“I suppose,” she said to Rose-Ann, “that you are going to 
take up your duties sometime. Why should you not assume 
them now?” 

This was two days after the burial, and a light fall of 
snow had hid the ghastly trail leading from the house to the 
freshly made mound. 

“Why, what is there to do, Prue?” Rose-Ann, sitting by 
the library fire, looked surprised. 

“Do? Why, you must take Mother’s place.” 


50 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Rose-Ann gasped. 

“I do not want to appear unsympathetic, Rose-Ann, but 
at times you seem to pose, and just now it is inexcusable. 
People talk.” 

“Do they, Prue? What do they say?” 

“The day of the funeral,” Prudence seemed to count her 
words, “you gave the impression of being apart from the rest 
of us. I do not think you have shed a tear, and still you-” 

“One cannot cry when there are no tears, Prue.” 

Rose-Ann spoke as from a great distance. 

“I wish with me, at least, Rose-Ann, that you would not 
act and talk like the foolish books you read. I agree with 
Father, you have been allowed to lay too great a stress upon 
yourself. You should forget yourself now, at any rate, and 
think of Father!” 

Rose-Ann gave a deep sigh as if rousing from a stupor; 
she looked at Prudence sitting across the hearth, her skirts, 
drawn up, showing her fat legs extended toward the 
fire. 

“Father?” Rose-Ann spoke the word as if it were the 
key that could open the door which was closed between her 
and life. 

“Father! Why should I think of him? All day long 
he sits like a king while people tell him—what, Prue, what? 
Do they tell him of Mother’s loveliness and goodness? No. 
They tell him of his goodness to her. His goodness! I do 
not think him good. 

“Why, Prue, I’ve been looking through this house since 
Mother died, and I cannot find one trace of her—except the 
gay little bag hanging over her rocker. She only stayed 
among the things Father let her have; she only showed what 
he outwardly had made of her. 

“But you are right, Prue, I am going to think of Father. 
I’m going to get from under the thing that crushed the soul 
of Mother and I will make Father see!” 

Had the dead risen and stood before Prudence she could 
hardly have been more horrified. Her jaw dropped; she 
drew her feet close as if to spring. 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


5i 

“Are you mad?” she asked. For a moment she blamed 
herself for underestimating Rose-Ann’s condition. Weak 
natures often succumb to attacks like this. She thought it 
was hysteria. But Rose-Ann went on. 

“All through this house, Prue, I have tried to trace Mother, 
but it is Trevall Trevall from cellar to attic. Mother made 
no impression.” 

“I’m going to telephone for the doctor.” Prudence rose 
suddenly. 

“You need not, Prue. Pm all right now. You set me 
going. I shall go on—never fear. On and on.” 

“Where are you going now?” Prudence watched every 
movement of her sister’s with wide, frightened eyes. 

“You know, Prue, how it is with me. Once I get started, 
I go. I am going now to Barry Compton’s—Pd almost 
forgot him.” 

At this Prudence clutched at something sane and vital. 

“You can hardly go there, Rose-Ann, after the disrespect 
he has shown Father.” 

“What has he done to Father?” 

Rose-Ann turned her thin white face to her sister. 

“He did not come to the funeral, sent no word—has 
taken no notice since.” 

“Then something must be wrong with him.” Rose-Ann’s 
face took on a tinge of colour. “And you’ve thought only of 
yourselves. You and Father! Haven’t you sent to inquire 
about him ?” 

“Certainly not! But you must see that you cannot go 
there, Rose-Ann.” Prudence’s voice was hard. 

“I am going to him now, Prue. Tell Father if you must; 
tell him anything you care to—until I explain later.” 

And then Prudence was alone. She heard the outer door 
close after Rose-Ann; she went to the window and saw her 
sister running over the lawn, making a short cut to the road. 
With horror she noted that over the black dress Rose-Ann 
wore her dark red coat, and the red turban crowned the 
ruddy hair. 

For a moment Prudence was more horrified by Rose-Ann’s 


52 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


appearance than she was by her defiance and disrespect. 
The latter might be explained—but the former, never. 
Middle Essex at midday was agog; it would never forget the 
sight of that flaming figure darting over the white snow— 
within a week after the funeral. 


CHAPTER V 


T HE day of Mrs. Trevall’s death Barry Compton had, 
according to Cleaver’s account, “shut himself in the 
tower room to write.” 

In a roundabout way this came to John Trevall, and while 
he was indifferent to Compton and not interested in the book 
he was supposed to be writing, the lack of respect shown to 
himself at such a time irritated him. 

“Of course this puts an end to any further intercourse,” 
he said stiffly to Prudence, “and it is a relief to have the 
matter ended. The man has nothing in common with us; his 
foreign habits are most objectionable and he will always be 
associated with—the one cloud that came between your 
mother and me. It was not her nature to make sudden 
friendships. Compton’s influence is not good.” 

In the face of this what was Prudence to say to her father, 
who at that moment was coughing rather miserably in the 
room above. 

But Rose-Ann speeding across the snow gave no thought 
to her outrageous appearance nor to her father’s state of 
mind when he should hear of her defiance. She was suddenly 
brought into action by the fear for Barry Compton. 

She, into whose life death had held heretofore so small a 
place, now feared mightily the devastating evil that seemed 
bent upon wrenching everything from her. 

She fancied Compton at death’s door or already passed 
through. She did not go to the stately front entrance of 
Compton’s home but ran to the porch upon which opened 
the bay window of the library. To her relief she saw Comp¬ 
ton sitting before the fire, a book on his knees; and he was 
talking to Cleaver. 


S3 


54 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


At the sound outside, both men turned, and Cleaver, as 
if expecting the visit and not at all surprised by the entrance 
chosen, opened the sash and stood respectfully aside while 
Rose-Ann ran across the room with outstretched arms. 

“Ah!” Compton’s face glowed as he drew her toward 
him. “I knew that you would come. You can take a 
friend on trust, my dear, that is a divine attribute.” 

“You have been ill, Barry?” 

“Not seriously, Rose-Ann.” 

“And—you did not let me know!” 

“You had enough to bear, dear girl. I knew that as soon 
as you could rise above it you would come to me. 

! “Cleaver, bring a good inviting lunch in here. I’m going 
to keep Miss Rose-Ann; she looks as if she needed attention.” 

Then after Cleaver had left the room: “My dear, you— 
jmust relax or you will break; you look—brittle. Sit down 
close beside me. There, now!” 

Rose-Ann bent her head upon Compton’s arm and burst 
into a flood of tears; the great sobs shook her from head to 
foot. All the barriers were down. 

“I hoped, my dear, that you could cry—it saves so much 
suffering. But you have waited until now. You will see 
clearly, Rose-Ann, from now on. Oh, my dear, my dear.” 

The sobs lessened; the tears stopped, and Rose-Ann looked 

up. 

“Thank you,” she murmured; ‘thank you.” She felt 
that Barry had physically set her free. 

“That’s all right. Rose-Ann, I am not afraid for you now, 
dear girl—I was when I first saw you. Are you able to have 
a little talk?” 

“I could talk for ever, Barry. There are ages of things to 
talk about.” 

But they ate the lunch before they talked. To her sur¬ 
prise Rose-Ann discovered that she was tasting the food. 

“It’s been like swallowing straw until now, Barry,” she 
whispered, and a faint smile touched her drooping mouth. 

Cleaver stood close, watching Rose-Ann’s plate with alert 
glance. When she raised her eyes to look at Compton, 


THE TENTH WOMAN 55 

Cleaver added a tidbit of this or that and presently Rose- 
Ann said: 

“But with all my appetite, Barry, I do not seem to be 
making much impression.” And she regarded her plate 
doubtfully. Then she turned to Cleaver and—laughed. 
The sound gave Compton a sense of grave danger well past. 

“And now, Rose-Ann, let us—talk!” Compton leaned 
back in his chair. He had eaten little while making a brave 
attempt. “Draw your own chair close, my dear. We may 
need to reach out to each other now and then.” 

“Mother said”—Rose-Ann would, for many a day, gasp 
as she spoke that name—“Mother knew, Barry—you are a 
wonderful friend.” 

“I have a kind of sixth sense,” Compton closed his eyes. 
“I call it my divining rod—it points to them who need 
friends as much as I do. 

“I think, Rose-Ann, that you and I need not retrace what 
your dear mother accomplished for us. She had time to 
reveal herself to you, my dear?” 

“Yes; Barry!” Remembering, Rose-Ann looked haggard. 
Compton leaned forward and touched her hand and the 
touch recalled her. 

“She was about the bravest, most splendid woman I ever 
knew, Rose-Ann, and she was right, right to the core.” 

“No, Barry! She was wrong. All her life she was 

crushed—she couldn’t rise against-” Rose-Ann wanted to 

say “Father”, but there was no need, between her and Comp¬ 
ton, for saying unnecessary things. 

“Rose-Ann, you must be just. Your father dealt always 
with a woman who was not your mother. That woman, the 
yielding, patient woman, was the kind to be crushed—she 
knew that at last. Had she been her sunny, joyous self, had 
she added that to what your father gave her, she would have 
been victorious. Your father is a good and just man, but 
his inheritance has made him hard. When one has such a 
golden gift as your mother had, Rose-Ann, she owes it to 
love, to be herself, to share it. Your mother realized this at 
last and she was right. Rose-Ann, she feared for you!” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


56 

“Barry”—the girl close to Compton seemed a stranger— 
“Barry, I hate my father!” 

Compton did not combat this. He merely asked, again 
reaching toward Rose-Ann: 

“Why, my dear?” 

“Because of what he did to my mother.” 

“He never dealt with your mother as you and I knew her. 
He might well, in a bitter moment, resent this. How would 
he have dealt with her—had he known?” 

“He would have broken her; killed her!” The voice 
was unrelenting. 

“That’s a terrible thing to say of any human being, Rose- 
Ann, unless you know it to be true. During all the years of 
his life with your mother, Rose-Ann, your father was adjust¬ 
ing himself to a woman who was acting a part-” 

“Barry, stop, stop!” Rose-Ann seemed protecting herself 
against the thing that she knew was truth. 

“It is too late for that, Rose-Ann. Women, tender, fond 
women often deal men cruel blows when most they mean to 
be loyal. And now if you, Rose-Ann, knowing what you do, 
go on judging, condemning, you will fail your mother. You 
must drop this shield behind which you are hiding and come 
forth. If you have anything superior to what you see in your 
family, you owe it to them, not others. You must deal 
openly.” 

“But they are so hard, Barry. So cruel.” 

“And you, my dear girl, are you not hard and, perhaps, 
unjust?” 

“They would hate the girl I really am, Barry!” 

The pitiful surrender touched Compton. 

“How do you know, my dear?” 

“I do know, Barry.” 

“I think not. Now see here, my dear girl, you have a 
right to your life. You must not steal it and leave a black 
trail behind you. Live in the open; deal frankly, Rose-Ann, 
and hopefully—when you have done this you will be in a 
position to act.” 

“Barry, I cannot.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


57 

“Yes, you can, Rose-Ann. In the name of your mother, 
I demand it of you!” 

Compton’s words rang out like the tones of a bell. 

“Have they told you of your mother’s will, Rose-Ann?” 

“No.” 

“She has left her share of her aunt’s legacy to you. That, 
added to your own, makes you free to be yourself. First, 
Rose-Ann, stand forth; the rest will be clear sailing—even at 
the worst. Your mother called this gift your open door, Rose- 
Ann. She was very whimsical with me; quite different from 
what she was at home.” Compton seemed bent upon making 
the dual personality clear. 

“Barry, it breaks my heart.” 

Compton saw the softened face, he heard the sob-shaken 
voice break into gentler tones. Closing his eyes, he talked 
on as if unheeding the sanctifying change. 

“This problem of your mother’s, Rose-Ann, she has left 
you free to solve. She did a brave thing when she laid her 
life open to you; her real self. She has done a wise thing in 
leaving you economically independent—the lack of that in 
the past has helped to forge the barrier between men and 
women—there is no excuse for you. There are many, 
Rose-Ann—and I was one of them until lately—who be¬ 
lieved your father to be a hard, domineering man—he 
may not be at heart! He may, in his soul, be hunger¬ 
ing and thirsting for what life has denied. Rose-Ann, in 
your mother’s name, give him opportunity to prove him¬ 
self in dealing with what I know you to be; what your mother 
hoped for you to be. Unless you do this while you are 
young you will be as I am now! One who hated until it was 
too late to love—when love might have counted the most.” 

Rose-Ann looked up and she saw, for a moment, the very 
soul of Barry Compton. A stark, bare soul. It stood as a 
pine stands upon a desolate hill. It had borne the winds and 
floods—it was twisted but not bent—it stood erect before 
her. It was trying to he-p her by exposing itself. 

And then Rose-Ann did the only thing she could do—she 
went to Compton and pressed her lips to his white forehead. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


58 

“I shall always remember,” she said, “this talk and— 
Mother’s.” 

After that the subject was never reopened, except in¬ 
directly. 

It was late afternoon when Rose-Ann returned home. She 
went up the hill with a sense of lightness that she had not 
felt for many a long day; the sun was gone behind the distant 
hills and the cold air was congealing the trickling brooks by 
the roadside that had so hopefully been loosened earlier. 

The sky was filled with great masses of white clouds that 
looked like broken and freed snow; these were growing pink 
in the afterglow. Rose-Ann stood still and watched it all 
with an overpowering realization of coming happiness—the 
righting of things; and with this came the glorious acceptance 
of the fact that her mother had never been really crushed, but 
had lived vitally—powerfully flowing through and under all 
that had hidden her, and so she must live on—in her child. 

At that moment Rose-Ann opened her soul to life; life 
and all it held; but she vowed that she would with all, 
through all, be free to give as well as to accept; to impress 
as well as to receive impressions. She would be her mother’s 
Thought in form. 

When she entered the house the family were in the library. 

Dinner had not been announced and Albert Townsend had 
just come up from Essex on the five o’clock train. John 
Trevall held an open paper in his hand. 

“Oh! Rose-Ann,” he said, “this is a copy of your mother’s 
will.” 

“And you,” Prudence broke in, “are quite an heiress.” 
Prudence tried to make her voice sisterly and sympathetic, 
but the acid tinged it. 

“You have what your mother terms her share and your 
own.” Trevall frowned at Prudence’s interruption. 

“Barry Compton and that man Cleaver were the witnesses 
—before my lawyer. This all seems to me to be regular 
enough, but in bad taste as far as the witnesses are concerned, 
and the time and place. However, I shall see the matter 
properly adjusted.” Trevall had himself well in hand. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


59 


“It is an added grief to me at this hour to find that your 
dear mother could act so in defiance of what she must have 
known were my wishes. And I am grieved and shocked, 
Rose-Ann, at your going to Compton!” 

“I think it is terrible for Father,” Prudence whimpered; 
“what will people think?” 

Rose-Ann sat quietly down and said nothing. 

She was holding to that moment on the hill—when she 
accepted life. She was not to be driven by life or absorbed 
by it—she would be part of it. And this was part of it—her 
family; her relation to them—she must look well to that. 
She merely raised her tired eyes and smiled at her father. 

With the coming of spring hard and bitter emotions sof¬ 
tened as the soil did that was opening to the flowers. 

John Trevall drove as usual to Essex and home again. If 
his heart ever ached, his self-control never failed him. 

Sometimes Rose-Ann felt that he was glad of her presence. 
He gave no sign of this by word, but often the sternness of 
his mouth relaxed when she had a merry moment. 

But Trevall was cautious. 

With Prudence’s share of her mother’s legacy, the house 
was begun in Middle Essex. Townsend had been recently 
made teller of the bank and a friend of his, William Braintree 
from Boston, was selected to take the head clerkship. 

Braintree was a handsome fellow of twenty-six or -seven; 
college bred and of good old New England stock. He had 
been a classmate of Townsend’s at Harvard and what had 
drawn them together was difficult to tell. The two men 
were, to all outward appearances, markedly unlike. There 
were an alertness and a decisiveness about Braintree that 
Townsend utterly lacked; he had a small income of his own 
that made him independent of the salary offered him by 
Trevall, but this did not lessen his interest in his work nor 
the zest with which he attacked it. 

During their college days both Braintree and Townsend, 
owing to a certain austerity of code and manner, had been 
isolated somewhat from their fellows who, while possibly as 


6o 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


honourable as they, assumed a scoffing attitude toward any¬ 
thing personal or serious. 

Finding themselves in a small minority they naturally 
cultivated each other, and as often happens in such cases, they 
both discovered likable and similar traits upon which to 
build sincere friendship. Townsend differed from Braintree 
in that he never suspected his limitations. He had ample 
freedom for all his mentality, ambitions, and desires. When 
any crisis loomed on Townsend’s horizon it was met by 
spontaneous preparedness. 

With Braintree this was not so. Without affectation he 
was as rigid in his personal tastes as a mediaeval saint, with 
this difference—he realized the limitations of saints. He 
knew that something set him aside from the many, but he 
recoiled from paying in spurious coin—and to him it would 
have been that—for the care-free enjoyment of life that the 
many accepted in the pure spirit of give and take. 

Braintree then had started out in life with a theory and he 
was prepared to make all else conform to that—and his 
theory was, he acknowledged, only secure behind a stockade. 
From that vantage point he had looked on at life; conscious 
that he had no real part in it. 

All this had contributed to making Braintree an intimate 
and favourite with few—but he was respected by all. Per¬ 
haps it was sheer loneliness that had drawn him to Townsend. 

When Rose-Ann first met Braintree, who lived with a 
Middle Essex family as a “paying guest,” she was confused 
and impressed. Her youth rose joyously to the splendid 
youth in him. To her beauty-loving nature his big handsome 
body made an appeal that she had never known before in her 
intercourse with young people of the town. Where others 
had bored her, Braintree interested her. 

He soon became worthy of her skill at tennis; he loved 
the open and books; he was alive, as she was—but he puzzled 
her. 

She confided her emotions to Barry Compton as he and she 
paced his old-fashioned garden in the late spring. 

“He is so different, Barry,” she mused, her eyes on the rim 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


61 


of golden crocuses that edged the stepping stones that she 
and Compton were treading like children—half jumping 
from stone to stone; “he’s like—at least part of him is—like 
something encased in crystal. I can see it, but I just cannot 
touch it.” 

“Do you like the young fellow, Rose-Ann?” 

Compton looked straight ahead at the splendour of young 
budding bushes and trees. 

“Well, Barry, I like the thing in the crystal. That is what 
gets me—it’s the best of him.” 

“And the rest, Rose-Ann, the part that is—well, outside 
the crystal?” 

“Barry, that’s the trouble. The two parts don’t seem to 
fit—and I am always trying to look through and get the one 
out and match it with the other.” 

“Ah, Rose-Ann, you’re playing with fire in the usual mad 
way. Why should you qualify as Smasher and Connecter of 
this stranger in our midst?” 

“Oh, Barry, he has ideas. It’s so delightful to play 
around with someone with ideas of his own. Most of 
the others have ideas that have been handed down to 
them like rag dolls with new dresses on. Mr. Braintree 
has some brand-new notions and he tries to put old duds 
on them.” 

“ Rose-Ann!” There was a sharp note in Compton’s voice, 
“do you ever think about going abroad these days?” 

Rose-Ann stopped short, and the little gasp that Compton 
never heard without a twinge greeted him. Then: 

“Not just yet, Barry, not just yet. You see—I should 
always be trying to find—her—in the places to which we plan¬ 
ned to go together.” 

“I see, my dear! Well, I have been thinking lately of 
another plan. As I often say to you, middle age has its 
recompenses and old age its special favours. I’m thinking 
of going West this summer. With all my globe-trotting 
I’ve never been there and there is someone I want very much 
to see in the Far West. Rose-Ann, how would you like to go 
with me as a—special favour?” 


62 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Rose-Ann stood still and looked at Compton while her 
face changed from blank amazement to amused delight. 

“Why, Barry—you shock me!” she said. “You’re not 
old and you know it. Father has lately acted as if he were 
not sure of me; expected me to spring something on him, and 
if I should suggest this mad plan of yours he’d feel confirmed 
in his opinion. But the West, Barry, the West! You tempt 
me sore, you mad Barry! Why, all my life I’ve dreamed of 
the West—somehow it has always seemed the only place big 
enough to spread out in. The West!” Rose-Ann gave an 
exaggerated sigh. “Barry!” she added, “don’t say things like 
that to me. There may be instantaneous combustion.” 

Compton laughed. 

“Oh! well, we might get around your conservatism, 
Rose-Ann,” he said, “we could take another woman along 
or—a policeman.” 

“Barry!” 

“Well, it’s worth thinking about, and I would like to have 
you meet Eric Manville.” 

“What a name for the West! And who is Eric Manville, 
Barry? And why do you spring him on me just now, you— 
you subtle old dear?” 

“Because”—Compton’s face grew serious—“you ought to 
see men. And Eric is a man. It’s a bad thing for a girl to 
know only certain types. It’s a disadvantage.” 

“You insult my male friends, Barry.” Rose-Ann tried to 
turn the conversation into shallow channels, but Compton 
was not to be side-tracked. 

“I mean what I say, Rose-Ann. Lately you have seemed to 
me to be drifting—fallen from your high ambitions. Don’t flax 
out, my dear, it is fatal at your age. How about college?” 

“I still think of that, Barry, but I want if I go to college to 
have a definite aim now. I’m old, terribly old, sir.” 

“You look about seventeen, Rose-Ann.” Then: “Has 
it ever occurred to you, my dear, that you are very beauti¬ 
ful?” 

“I’m rather respectable looking, Barry.” 

“No, that’s just what you are not, my dear, according to 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


63 

certain standards. Your hair has a glint that is not at all 
respectable or safe. Your eyes, child, should often have 
blinders on; they are not just eyes. Your smile, Rose-Ann: 
your smile makes one remember all the things he ever wanted 
and couldn’t have. Some women, who can be trusted, 
should know such things about themselves.” 

“Barry, you make me want to cry.” 

“Instead, I want you to be the happiest woman in the 
world, Rose-Ann, and no woman is happy if she is ignorant. 
Have you ever been farther from your moorings than Boston, 
Rose-Ann ?” 

“Yes, sir. I’ve motored several times through the White 
Mountains and twice I’ve been to New York. Father 
insists that once one has seen Boston he has seen all cities; 
but, of course, that isn’t so. Cities are as different as folks. 
The last time I was in New York I went to Washington. 
That seems like the spirit of cities. I adored it. Yes, sir, 
I’m a travelled person.” 

“I was not thinking so much of cities, Rose-Ann, as spaces 
between cities; the life that is lived by people who are creating 
life; people different from—well, New England folk. I’ve 
lived always among finished products and so have you—we 
have this ignorance in common, Rose-Ann—and it is rather 
interesting to see what effect upon us the unknown would 
have.” 

“Barry, my blood is running riot in my veins. I think I 
would be willing to die if once I could know the thing you 
mean. It would take our breaths, Barry. We’d cling and 
shiver maybe, but we’d be a better man and woman for ever 
after.” 

There was a pause. Then Rose-Ann, linking her arm in 
Compton’s, said: 

“Barry, why don’t you write and ask that friend of yours— 
that Eric Something, to come here? You might go back 
with him, you know, and he could put life in us. Tell me 
about him. Is he young?” 

“About thirty-two or -three, I should say.” Compton 
was visioning Manville. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


64 

“He was in a crystal once, Rose-Ann—your simile made 
me think of him. He splintered it—and got free. But once 
free, Manville had to learn to manage the thing he had freed 
in himself. People often do, you know. I have not seen 
Manville for years.” 

“Barry!” Rose-Ann shook a finger at him, “are you 
warning me? Am I in danger?” 

“My dear child, you are always in danger because-” 

Compton paused. 

“Because what, Barry?” 

“You are trying to fly before you learn to walk. There is 
a legend about the marlit bird, you know, that reminds me of 
you. Having no feet, the creature always had to fly, could 
alight nowhere. My dear Rose-Ann, you have feet. Learn 
to manage them on this earth of ours—this little spot of 
earth, Middle Essex—and then take to wings. I would not 
limit your flights, but I do not want you to have any more 
tumbles than are necessary.” 

“Barry”—Rose-Ann’s voice trembled—“we are getting 
very, very serious, and on such a day, too! There are days 
when I cannot see over the rim of things. Days when I think 
of Mother’s poor little futile life snapped off just when she 
might have tried her wings; but on such days as this, Barry, 
I can feel myself rising—rising and leaving the rim 
behind.” 

Compton looked at the young vital creature beside him; 
felt her charm and appeal that were so intensely feminine yet 
daringly suggestive of strength. 

“Rose-Ann,” he said, and his eyes were now fixed upon 
the edge of sunny crocuses, “your life, my dear, is to justify 
your mother’s. There is no other solution. Remember 
that.” 

“Are you clipping my wings, Barry?” 

“No, Rose-Ann—just trying to strengthen them.” 

The spring afternoon was warm and fragrant and the two 
walking in the old-fashioned garden talked on until the 
shadows fell across the sweet young grass. 

And later, when Rose-Ann was alone at home, her thoughts 



THE TENTH WOMAN 65 

wandered back to all that Compton had said. Detached 
from him, it sounded grave and apprehensive. 

“And what started it all?” Rose-Ann thought. Then 
she flushed and her pulses throbbed. 

“Braintree!” 

That was it. Barry was warning her. Barry wanted to 
take her away; wanted her to meet other men—Eric Man- 
ville in particular. 

“Why? Why?” murmured the girl to herself; and then 
her eyes grew dreamy. 

Poor Compton, as people often do, had headed Rose-Ann 
in Braintree’s direction when most desiring to accomplish 
the opposite. Compton was afraid of Braintree. He saw 
what Rose-Ann saw, but he saw more. He realized from a 
knowledge, gleaned from his reading and study, that it was 
the similarity between Braintree and her own people that 
was luring Rose-Ann in her hours of reaction from her 
mother’s death. 

The inner man that Rose-Ann perceived was, Compton 
agreed, possible, but its development was a mere chance 
unless Braintree was shaken out of the inheritance of which 
he was so proud. 

“And I do not want Rose-Ann,” thought Compton, also 
sitting alone after the garden talk, “to be hurt by the splin¬ 
tered glass when that crystal that she feels surrounds Brain¬ 
tree is crushed—if t ever is!” 

When summer came to Middle Essex life became pleasanter 
than Rose-Ann had ever known it. 

The house was still vibrating to that sense of loneliness 
that Faith’s going had evolved. It still hurt Rose-Ann to 
see any one sitting in the little rocker in the living room, and 
she had had a new flooring put in her room. She could not 
bear the hole in the floor. She felt no curiosity about the 
conversations carried on below. 

Always it was her mother’s voice that she seemed to miss; 
the pleas for her; the efforts to be loyal where loyalties so 
often clashed—oh! how hard it must have been. And the 


66 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


tappings on the chair had become unendurable. So Rose- 
Ann had the floor relaid. 

“But why this sudden desire?” Trevall had asked. “The 
rug seems to cover the space perfectly.” 

“I can hear voices too plainly,” Rose-Ann carelessly 
explained, “through the stove hole.” 

“Have you not always heard them?” 

Trevall was not imaginative, but a curious expression 
passed across his face. 

“Yes,” Rose-Ann replied gently, “and I miss Mother’s.” 

So the floor was relaid, and the upper chamber had a 
modern look that jarred the placid unity of the rest of the 
house. 

There were gay cretonne hangings and coverings—every 
new detail brought a grim setting to Trevall’s jaw, for they 
were bought with Rose-Ann’s money and she never asked 
for approbation. 

“Being at the back of the house, Daddy,” she flippantly 
explained, “the neighbours will not get too great a jog, and 
I adore the colour. Look at those cocky birds among the 
flowers and leaves—they simply sing to me.” 

“I dislike the whole thing,” said Trevall, and so he did; 
and Rose-Ann was puzzling him. 

It was only in her own brightened and modernized cham¬ 
ber that Rose-Ann could hold her mother’s memory without 
a pang. 

“How the dear would have loved it,” she said. And 
presently the little old rocker found its place by her own 
fireside, and the gay little workbag still hung over the 
top! No one missed the chair from the room below, and that 
hurt Rose-Ann, but she patted it gently and whispered: 

“Never mind, ducky, you’d love best to be here.” 

But if the house echoed to footfalls that had gone their 
distant way, the sunny out of doors was vibrant with joy, 
promise, and sweetness. 

There was Barry Compton to visit with—and some anxiety 
for his sick spells and hours of detachment while he wrote 
his mysterious book. There was William Braintree to play 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


67 

with—and there were the long walks alone, often ending in 
the churchyard where, in that quiet place, she divided her 
time between Faith Trevall’s revered mound among the 
elect and Aunt Theodora’s in the forgotten corner. 

“Somehow, little old Auntie,” Rose-Ann whispered one 
day as she knelt to plant ivy on the flattened grave, “I 
believe Mother will look you up and—make you happy. I 
like to think of you together.” 

This seemed, even to Rose-Ann upon reflection, to be 
rather daring, and having finished her task she sat on the 
old broken stone, her sweet face resting in her rather soiled 
hands—and tried to understand the difference between her 
mother and that long-dead ancestor. “Mother had not 
lived out her longing and Aunt Theodora had. But-” 

And it was the path that Theodora Trevall had chosen 
that lured Rose-Ann more intensely than the one her mother 
had trod! 

It was by Aunt Theodora’s grave that Braintree found 
Rose-Ann one June afternoon. 

He had come up from Essex early, in order, so he believed, 
to have a game of tennis. Braintree was not fond of sport 
and he played automatically, but it was the best avenue of 
reaching Rose-Ann, so Braintree availed himself of it. 

He had gone to her house and to Prudence’s—the Town¬ 
sends were living in their pretty finished house now and 
Prudence had already taken on the air of assurance that 
Middle Essex alone could bestow upon her. 

“I think,” Prudence had told Braintree, “that you’ll 
find Rose-Ann at Mr. Compton’s or—perhaps in the grave¬ 
yard. She often goes to Mother’s grave.” 

Braintree chose the latter possibility. If Compton had 
doubts about Braintree, Braintree had none about him. 
Very definitely, so Braintree thought, danger lurked in 
Compton’s quarter. 

It was the influence Compton held over Rose-Ann that 
disturbed Braintree. 

The silence in the Place of the Dead impressed him. He 
stepped softly and bared his head. The full June sunlight 


68 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


beat down upon him, and standing at the entrance of the 
Trevall plot, disappointed and dismayed at not finding 
Rose-Ann, he had never looked handsomer or more human. 

From afar Rose-Ann saw him. Saw him as she had never 
seen him before—off his guard! 

For a moment—one of those unsuspected moments when 
Fate gambles recklessly—Rose-Ann sat very still, and then 
the call of her youth and loneliness deafened her. Some¬ 
thing stronger than her doubt pleaded for Braintree. He 
looked so tall and big and protecting. He had sought her 
and she must meet him! 

She stood up, a slight, lovely figure, and Braintree saw 
her. His face suddenly flushed and his eyes grew grave and 
deep. He came quickly toward her with outstretched hands. 
His crystallized self throbbed but did not shatter its prism. 

“You look,” he whispered when he reached her, “like a 
little spirit risen from the earth. Just for a moment I 
feared that you might disappear before I could—hold you.” 

The words were daring, and since Braintree was holding 
Rose-Ann’s small, stained hands, they were significant. He 
could not let them fall from his; he pressed them closer. 

“I feel,” Rose-Ann did not move away, “rather glad to 
be—held from disappearing. I do not want to disappear.” 

“Rose-Ann?” 

The world-old question was in Braintree’s eyes. He asked 
it without doubt or witholding. He had never wanted 
anything so much in his life as he wanted Rose-Ann, and 
there was no earthly reason for waiting, now that he 
understood. 

“Rose-Ann?” 

Again Fate gambled for a moment. Rose-Ann stood as 
still as if indeed she were a risen spirit weighing the chances 
of disappearance or—a static state. 

To go on—with the love offered? That meant but one 
thing. 

To slip back? That meant—what? 

“Rose-Ann?” 

She must act at once. That, too, Rose-Ann recognized. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 69 

Their eyes clung. Young, unafraid eyes with the sudden 
uprising of passion flooding them. 

Without a word from Rose-Ann, Braintree bent and 
kissed her. In silence and awe she had surrendered. His 
lips upon hers made her tremble, and so Braintree gathered 
her in his arms. 

She lay there quiet and breathing so lightly that she 
seemed unconscious. But never before had Rose-Ann been 
so alive. It was like being aware for the first time in her life 
of a great power that meant herself! She lifted her eyes to 
Braintree’s and whispered: 

“And this is what it meant?” 

“Yes, Rose-Ann. It has swept us away, but together.” 

“Away? Away from what?” 

“Everything. It is carrying us to a new heaven and a 
new earth.” 

Trevall was deeply moved when Braintree came to him 
that night in the library. Rose-Ann had gone to Compton. 

Braintree had all the essentials dear to TrevalPs soul. 
Family—New England family. A modest fortune, not 
enough to kill ambition, but enough to be an incentive to 
greater ambition. 

The physical fitness of Braintree, also, appealed to Trevall. 
He laid great stress upon that. 

That anything so perfectly in accord with his own desires 
should meet with Rose-Ann’s approval caused Trevall to 
curb the impulse to show his relief. He felt as one does in 
the presence of something so lightly poised as to be in danger 
of the least jar—Rose-Ann might from sheer perversity 
topple the sacred thing. 

Since his wife’s death Rose-Ann had been a subject of 
much thought to Trevall. There had been a marked change 
in the girl. There were moments when she did not seem to 
take Trevall seriously. This was most disturbing, and yet 
there was less and less necessity for proving to her how serious 
he was. Except for her determination to visit Compton, she 
behaved in the most seemly manner. She managed the 
house serenely and competently. She was adored by the 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


70 

servants, and even Prudence was obliged to admit that her 
younger sister had at last “come to her senses.” 

But with this gratifying state arrived at, no one could 
look at Rose-Ann and not be impressed with the transitory 
suggestion of her moods and appearance. 

“But once married,” thought Trevall, “she will be safe.” 

Looking at Braintree, this belief grew in power. There 
was nothing transitory about Braintree. He was of the kind 
who belonged to the ages—all ages—and Trevall reflected, 
with a grateful sigh, that Rose-Ann had a sense of honour 
that might be depended upon once she took a vow. The 
vow was the vital and objective point. 

With that air of being afraid to dislodge something 
Trevall talked to Braintree that evening. Then, having 
expressed his entire approval (he did not mention his relief), 
he turned to the sterner aspects of business. Braintree 
should, of course, be advanced at the Bank. 

Since Rose-Ann had money of her own the future was 
about as rosy as any future could well be. 

Braintree admitted this with the light of the new heaven 
and earth still in his eyes. 

And while the two men went over the details—always 
edging cautiously, Rose-Ann, unknown to both, was sitting 
on the top step of Compton’s porch catching her breath, for 
she had run wildly across the lawns. 

“Barry!” she gasped, “the most unusual thing has hap¬ 
pened to me. I am engaged to marry Braintree!” 

The ashes fell from Compton’s cigar. 

“That is rather unusual, Rose-Ann,” he said at last. 

“Barry, it is more than that. It is epoch-making.” 

It was characteristic of Compton that after the first 
shock he relinquished whatever he had hoped for and reached 
out to grasp what might be offered. 

All his life this had been his lot. Disease, and secret, losing 
battles, had weakened his mental and physical resistance, but 
his spirit was unconquered. 

“Are you happy, Rose-Ann?” he asked, seeking now that 
consummation through Braintree, not another. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


7 i 

“Oh! Barry, I am, but Fm not sure of myself. It is my¬ 
self that makes me doubt—what am I going to do with 
happiness?” 

“It will do great things for you, my dear girl!” Compton 
tossed his cigar aside and bent over her as she sat at his knee; 
“it will reveal you, Rose-Ann, to us all.” 

“How satisfying you are, Barry. One could not fail you, 
for you never fail others. I wonder if you will think me a 
cold-blooded vampire, Barry, if I tell you something?” 

“No, Rose-Ann.” 

“Well, lately I have seen that this was coming, and one 
day when I was making up the house accounts—income and 
expenditures, you know—something queer happened. In¬ 
stead of writing down dollars and cents on one page and 
sugar and butter on the other I was doing this.” 

She pictured it merrily. 


“College. 

“Travel. 

“Having myself. 
“Having my own life. 
“The total was, Barry: 


A home with someone else. 
Children. 

Giving up myself to others. 
The Big Chance! 


“I did that over and over, Barry, and it helped. And the 
Big Chance was all that mattered, really. The Big Chance 
alone, or with another. Always, the Big Chance. I was 
ready when Braintree spoke. He wasn’t. I saw that. He 
just plunged. I think women usually have the advantage 
of some kind of a Budget, but men just plunge. It is rather 
splendid of them, I think. It makes women, at least it 
made me, sorry and tender as if I were taking advantage. 

“And then, Barry, he and I were in the old graveyard, 
of all places! I felt swept off my feet by the thing that had 
swept him, and all the cold-blooded Budget faded away. I 
saw that I dared take the Big Chance with Braintree. I 
loved the feeling of his arms—I wanted to kiss him; I trusted 
him, and oh! Barry, you will understand, I suddenly felt that 
I wanted him to be the father of my children. I think that 



72 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


is the greatest test. I would not have to apologize for him 
as a father. And, Barry, I adore little children.” 

The cool evening was still, and a holy radiance from a full 
moon fell upon Rose-Ann’s uplifted face—she had laid her 
girl-soul bare to Compton and he felt as if he should kneel 
before her. 

Again there swept over him the emotion that had decided 
his own temptations long ago when he dreamed of the Big 
Chance with a woman. 

He wondered how men—dared! Men who craved the 
best in women; men who could only be satisfied with the best. 
How dared they? 

That Braintree dared did not lower Compton’s estimate of 
the man; that Rose-Ann trusted, called forth hope and a new 
sense of life. 

Women, such women as Rose-Ann, had a light within them 
that needed no interpretation; that shamed doubt. 

“And so I am happy, Barry.” 

The words came swiftly, as if shielding the moment of 
revealment. 

“My dear, my dear, you have made me very happy. You 
have given back to me something I thought was lost for ever.” 

And then Compton bent and kissed the face close to his— 
waiting for the kiss. 

Compton had never touched Rose-Ann’s lips before—it 
marked a new relation between them. 


CHAPTER VI 


T HE engagement, announced at a small dinner over 
which Prudence presided in her father’s house, caused 
a mild and gratified ripple. Every such union in 
Middle Essex strengthened the foundations that were often 
threatened by innovations. After the congratulations 
Rose-Ann and Braintree were permitted to indulge any 
personal idiosyncrasies they might have. They would be 
proper ones, without doubt. 

Rose-Ann blossomed suddenly into an exquisitely lovely 
girl. Her father, regarding her as he might a plant whose 
kind he was familiar with but not its bloom, felt like ex¬ 
claiming: “1 had not anticipated this!” Secretly Trevall was 
thankful that another, not himself, was to deal with the 
woman Rose-Ann promised to be. 

Braintree, in the first flush of happiness and possession, 
saw no flaw in Rose-Ann and his best and truest nature, 
while not splintering the crystal that held it, warmed it so 
radiantly that Rose-Ann felt the heat and expanded in re¬ 
sponse. It was so exactly to her taste to be appreciated, 
flattered, and considered. This new phase of existence did 
not make the girl selfish or self-centred—she became 
touchingly humble, she reached forth as she had never done 
before, to anticipate the wishes of others; to be what they 
believed her to be. So intent was she upon this that she 
dragged into the light of day her every shortcoming. She 
did not mean that Braintree should take her under false 
pretences. She made an effort to be as frank with him as 
she had always been with Compton. 

This aspect, as might be expected, blinded Braintree to 
any real danger. He saw complete and beautiful surrender 
to a love that had mastered Rose-Ann. And while he and 


73 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


74 

she looked from a different angle at some things, they had 
much in common. 

Spurred to ambition by Rose-Ann’s prowess, Braintree 
took anew to outdoor sports, and while he never fully enjoyed 
them, he gloried in the results. His health was perfect; he 
welcomed every day as if it were another opportunity to 
test and prove his mettle. His new work at the Bank called 
forth unsuspected powers of endurance and concentration. 

Rose-Ann, again with her own money, bought that summer 
a little roadster and soon became a familiar figure on the 
broad highway. 

The innovation naturally appalled Trevall. It was one 
thing for Rose-Ann to sit beside him at the wheel and quite 
another to dash through the landscape unaccompanied, or 
with someone of her own choosing. 

“Billy approves!” Rose-Ann smilingly silenced her 
father—of course with her natural tendency to nicknames, 
Braintree, a bit jarred, it must be confessed, was known now 
as Billy. 

“And oh! Daddy, the feeling is rapturous. I tell you, when 
I get to heaven, if I ever do, I hope they’ll give me a car 
instead of wings.” 

“I have nothing to say, Rose-Ann, if William approves.” 
Trevall ignored the flippancy of nicknames and irreligious 
joking—“but I hope that you will observe the laws for 
safety.” 

“I will, Daddy. My neck was never so precious as 
now.” 

It became a habit with Rose-Ann to drive into Essex and 
meet Braintree each day. Sometimes she would take 
him to the tennis courts, where he changed to flannels 
and competed with Rose-Ann, or she took him for long 
drives in the country which, that summer, was lovely beyond 
words. 

The drives pleased Braintree most of all. He grew in¬ 
ordinately proud of the girl beside him; proud of her skill 
and daring; proud of her beauty and independence. She was 
so surely his that every attribute was an added asset to his 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


75 


growing success. In the glow of content, marriage was 
rarely thought of except as a desirable port to which they 
were naturally drifting on a golden sea. 

And then one day, they were a long distance from home 
and the little car was flying over the perfect road, Rose-Ann 
spoke of Aunt Theodora. She had had the subject in 
mind for several days. Braintree had called it forth by a 
reference he had made to the startling purity of Rose-Ann’s 
nature. He mistook her quaint knowledge for—ignorance. 

“My darling,” he had whispered, “there are times when 
you make me afraid. You see me through your own un¬ 
touched idealism and when you find I am—well, just a man 
madly in love—what is going to happen to us ?” 

Without realizing it, Braintree had in common with his 
forbears a belief that marriage gave license and sanctity to 
all relations. 

The remark had caused Rose-Ann a wakeful night; had 
taken her to the window overlooking the road upon which 
Aunt Theodora had stood and flung back her challenge. 

“I’ve got to make Billy understand,” Rose-Ann spoke 
aloud as she viewed the crest of the hill in the moonlight, 
“that the thing that is going to happen is this—a woman is 
going to meet her man, not a silly fool. Tve read and 
thought my way out of the jungle. I’ll tell him about Aunt 
Theodora and my likeness to her.” 

This instantly seemed to focus the whole situation. Rose- 
Ann believed she understood, at last, her long-dead ancestor. 
The fire and blood that held part in that fugitive’s character 
were like to those that raced in Rose-Ann’s own. Having a 
vision of happiness as Aunt Theodora had, she now could 
count the cost. It was quite plain. 

“And I realize, too, the cost!” Rose-Ann confessed to her¬ 
self. “I’m that kind of a woman, and I do not believe Billy 
suspects it. He hasn’t got to make me—I’m made. Poor 
dear! he likes to think he’s lured an angel from a niche in 
Paradise, and like all men after he marries what he thinks he’s 
lured, he’d expect her to become—a woman. Well, there’ll 
be no agony of readjustment here, Billy my dear, Pm a 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


76 

woman now and we’ll discount the angel period. I like you 
mightily, my love, but also—you are an opportunity.” 

And so sitting close to Braintree in the trim car Rose-Ann 
began her devastation of Braintree’s angelic conception of her. 

“Billy,” she said, giving him the side smile that her atten¬ 
tion to the wheel necessitated, “I’m going to tell you a story. 
It’s about an old, disreputable aunt of mine; we do not often 
speak of her, but since they say I resemble her, and since it 
was beside her grave that you told me you loved me, I’m 
going to share her with you.” 

If coming events sometimes cast their shadows, they oc¬ 
casionally announce their approach by a warning blast. 

Braintree suddenly started and put his hand over Rose- 
Ann’s as it clutched the wheel. 

“I wish that you would slacken your speed,” he said. 

“Nonsense, Billy, I know this road. It was meant to fly 
over. Now listen to the story of Aunt Theodora.” 

Braintree listened. He listened to the words and tones; 
something far back of his organs of hearing listened to echoes 
and undertones, and took alarm. 

Rose-Ann’s reading and hours of reflection had given her 
a knowledge of life; a background that was as frank as it was 
startling. She called certain things by grim Saxon names 
and Braintree shrank as he might from blasphemy on the 
lips of a child. 

Indeed, it was by considering Rose-Ann as a child dealing 
with expressions that she could not possibly comprehend, 
that he kept his poise. 

His eyes never left the glowing, vital face beside him. 

“You see, Billy,” Aunt Theodora’s sketchy history came 
to an abrupt end, and Rose-Ann appeared to take her own 
place on Braintree’s horizon; “all my life long the trouble has 
been that I have rebelled, as Aunt Theodora did, against the 
iron in my family inheritance. I understand it now. I am 
different. I love life, warm and quick. I love being part 
of life—all of life. I’m not afraid, and I’ll pay the toll. 
God has been very good to me, Billy dear, in giving me my 
chance through love and you. That poor little old auntie of 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


77 


mine had to steal her bit. Had I married what she probably 
did, I, too, would have followed the call of my blood. Noth¬ 
ing could cheat me of my own. 

“You must not think me a white dove, Billy dear. I hate 
to have you act as if you were bowing down to a prudish 
little statue on a shelf. I’m just a woman out for life. 
Thank God! it is our life, Billy. Isn’t it splendid?” 

Braintree’s face was set and—tender. He looked at 
Rose-Ann, not daring to express his true feelings for fear he 
might startle her into consciousness by suggestion. 

Of course, he thought, she is tinged by the thing that is 
menacing other women, but she does not understand. 

“Rose-Ann,” he said presently, ignoring all that had just 
been said, “I want you to marry me—at once!” 

The fear in Braintree’s voice was hid by the sincere desire 
he had to save and protect the woman he loved. He, like 
his forbears, saw safety for her only in marriage. He did 
not for an instant doubt the safety of that sanctuary. He 
understood, he believed, more than Rose-Ann’s amazing 
words had expressed. He felt the high tide of emotion and 
youth that had spurred the girl to her conclusions; he 
had controlled and subdued them for himself; he would be 
Rose-Ann’s interpreter as well as lover, but he must be 
her husband. Only in that capacity could he command the 
situation. 

“At once, Billy? How absurd.” 

“We need not wait, my dear girl. With your little fortune 
and mine,” he smiled, “we can begin our life together. 
There is no real life for either of us until we are married.” 

“I don’t want to think in terms of income, Billy. That 
is one thing that disturbs me. I wish that you and I could—” 
here a whimsical laugh startled Braintree—“do the stunt 
that Aunt Theodora and her—her artist-man did.” 

“Rose-Ann!” 

“Don’t look snippy, Billy. I mean of course being per¬ 
fectly proper, you and I. Correctly married and all that 
—but afterward, our faces set to the open, going forth to 
find our place in life. It’s so horribly safe about us. House 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


78 

and three meals sure and certain. Billy, what am I going 
to do to fill in the day—when I’m married ?” 

“Be my wife, darling.” The strange fear still held Brain¬ 
tree. “Keep house and love bright and shining.” 

“It will never fill in the whole day, Billy. I’ll have to 
consult Barry about that.” 

“Rose-Ann, I do not like Compton. I do not trust him.” 

Braintree had never gone as far as this before. 

Rose-Ann gave him a quick side glance. 

“I’m sorry, Billy. I like him a great deal and he is to be 
trusted. You must—” Rose-Ann leaped ahead in her 
thought—“you must try to like him, for he is my best friend.” 

Suddenly Braintree asked: 

“Have you got your ideas of life, Rose-Ann, through 
Compton or—books?” 

“ Both, Billy. Barry and I talk of everything—especially 
after we read books.” 

Braintree shuddered as he reflected upon the conversations. 

“Cold, Billy?” 

“It is a bit chilly.” 

They were skimming along the road toward home when 
Rose-Ann suddenly slowed down. The unbroken hillside 
known as Far Essex was beside them. 

“Why—” she said and stopped the car—“why, we’ll 
build here, Billy—on that hill! No one has thought of it— 
we’ll be pioneers—we’ll put our house right there—see?” 
she pointed to a rocky, elm-crowned rise of ground. “We’ll 
start Far Essex. I can see it like a picture. The dining 
room will be the link—between kitchen and living rooms. 
A narrow room facing east and west; sunrises and sunsets. 
Open fireplaces—many of them—a big room to begin and 
grow in. Billy, can you see it?” 

Rose-Ann was ecstatic. 

“They will think us mad, my darling.” Braintree was 
estimating the cost of the land. 

“Well, we are, Billy—mad as people are who let go—and 
do not know where they are going to land. Never mind—if 
I don’t have my house there, I’ll have no house.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


79 


After all, odd as it seemed, there were advantages in the 
scheme, and Braintree was counting them. Land would be 
cheap. It was near the station and happily distant from 
neighbours. 

“I’d build on the edge of—nothing !” Braintree whispered, 
“rather than wait, my beloved.” 

Braintree had let go, but he believed he knew perfectly 
where he was going to land. 

It all seemed too, too easy after that. 

Trevall was raised to a state bordering upon excitement. 
What he had feared for his younger daughter he had never 
dared to express, but she had always filled him with a grave 
and tangible anxiety. It was to be all right now. He 
knew Braintree’s type—did he not, though!—and Braintree 
would make Rose-Ann happy for, added to type was modern 
comprehension that knew how to curb tradition and direct it. 

Prudence shared her father’s joy and relief. 

“William is perfect, Father,” she said. “Albert has 
known him from boyhood up. He’s quite wonderful as to— 
to ideals, you know and all that—and simply unbending in 
the final analysis.” Prudence was inarticulate when it came 
to details. 

“And so practical, Father. Rose-Ann needs just such a 
balance. The way she handles Mother’s legacy proves that. 
William keeps account of every last item. He knows where 
he stands, always. I can just see him organizing Rose- 
Ann.” 

But it was to Compton that Rose-Ann went with all her 
doubts and quivers of joy. She could speak to Compton 
without hesitation—she never had to weigh her words with 
him—he understood. 

Braintree had left early one stormy August evening. 

“Now that we have each other,” he explained, “we must 
save ourselves for each other, dear. We must not—exhaust 
each other.” 

Rose-Ann laughed. 

“Do I exhaust you, Billy?” she asked. “I’m as fresh as a 
daisy—all the time.” 




8o 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Braintree smiled indulgently and kissed her passionately. 
He felt like a mariner nearing port after a dangerous passage. 

“Nice old Billy,” she whispered. “Sometimes I think 
you are afraid of me.” 

But when he was gone and Rose-Ann, in her room upstairs, 
looked out into the heart of the storm, she saw a light in 
Compton’s library window and without a moment’s hesita¬ 
tion she donned storm coat and rubbers and set forth. 

When she reached Compton’s she tiptoed to the side piazza 
upon which the library opened, and tapped on the glass. 
That was now considered her private entrance. Compton 
was reading but looked up instantly and stared at the rain- 
drenched laughing face outside. He got up, and opened the 
window. 

“Well,” he said, “I wonder if there is any limit to the 
things you may do, Rose-Ann ?” 

“I think not, Barry. Please let me sit by your fire and 
dry out.” 

“Of course. Is anything the matter?” 

He was taking her coat and hat. 

“Certainly. I wanted to shake all my small doubts out 
and go over the list with you.” 

“Have you doubts, Rose-Ann ? You, a girl about to marry 
the man you love? Shame on you!” 

“That’s just it, Barry.” Rose-Ann was crouching before 
the small welcome fire on the hearth. “What is love?” 

“I suppose every soul on earth has asked that, child—and 
found thousands of answers. Shake out your doubts.” 

“Well, sir, I’ll shake out first the things I’m pretty sure of. 

“I love to have Billy touch me and say that he—wants 
me above anything on earth.” 

“Love scores one!” Barry broke in. 

“Barry, I still like to think of Billy as the father of my 
children. I always shocked Prue by saying that my children 
had to choose my husband for me.” 

Compton chuckled. 

“Prudence thinks children immoral until they are making 
bodily nuisances of themselves,” he said. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


81 


“Exactly! Well, Barry, I really approve of the choice my 
children have made. ,, 

“Good!” 

“I am crazy about the home on the untried hill. It’s 
such a dare—and we are going to take it and prove what it 
means to start a boom. I’m going to have all the things in 
that house that I have never had anywhere else—music for 
Mother and you and me. 

“Books! I want you to choose many for me. Books 
possible for married women to possess but which young girls 
have to—lie about.” 

“You little desperado, Rose-Ann.” 

They nodded at each other happily. 

“But, Barry”; and here Rose-Ann grew serious and wistful. 
“Billy agrees to everything—as if it really did not matter, 
or-” 

“Or what, Rose-Ann?” 

“Or as if he meant to have his say—by and by. Good¬ 
ness! Barry, I don’t mind opposition. I’ve been brought 
up on that, the fun is to win out—or surrender. Something 
vital, something to clinch, but Billy just lets me slip along. 
It isn’t natural or human.” 

“You show the lust of battle, Rose-Ann.” 

“Yes. To simply go up to that house on the hill, Barry, 
and end it all, would be-” 

“Exactly what, Rose-Ann?” 

“Well, the beginning of calamity. I want to go on and on 
with Billy. I want to go from one experience to another with 
him. Grow up with him to the very end of life, you know. 
Never stop. I tire him when I talk like this—he gets up and 
looks puzzled. He seems, I hardly know what to say, 
Barry, but he seems to think that marriage in a way is a 
terminal—and oh! I think of it as a starting point.” 

Compton looked at the grave, absorbed face. 

“Don’t expect too much, my dear,” he said; “a man goes 
on in his business and, of course, experiences for you both 
will come—but when a man marries, his home life does seem 
a bit stationary to him; it must.” 



82 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“I’m afraid I don’t take root easily.” Rose-Ann shook 
her head. “ I like the wing idea better. Settling on branches 
—and then off and up.” 

“Have you talked this out with Braintree, Rose-Ann? 
You should, you know.” 

“Yes, I have. He thinks it a joke; and, Barry, it is the 
deadliest earnest thing in my noddle. That’s the trouble. 
The solemnest things to me seem jokes to Billy. It’s when I 
talk like this that he says we mustn’t exhaust each other. 
He goes home at ten, sharp. I’ve battled to make him under¬ 
stand.” 

“It’s ten forty-five now, Rose-Ann, and quite disreputably 
late.” 

“Isn’t it? Well, I’m going now, Barry. I suppose it’s 
either shutting your eyes and leaping or opening them and 
getting blind with the light. But, Barry, I’m afraid of 
things that somehow elude me.” 

“They may not exist, Rose-Ann.” 

“Exactly. And so—I want to tell you, I am going to 
marry Billy on September 24th. That was Mother’s 
wedding day. No one will ever know, but I’m going to 
fancy her standing beside me—my maid of honour; sort of 
bucking me up.” 

When Rose-Ann had slipped again through the window 
and out into the storm, Compton sat on by the ashy hearth 
and grew grimly serious. 

“She’ll go on growing,” he thought, “but Braintree won’t 
—he’s finished, and she senses it. What will he do when 
she pushes on? He had better not try to—to grip her.” 
Compton looked fierce. 

“It will all depend upon whether she holds him sensually, 
alone, or spiritually as well. In the latter case there may be 
hope. It’s a damned risk no matterwhich way you look at it.” 

Then Compton got up and walked the floor while over his 
face a strange and dangerous change came. 

The fine features twitched and then hardened. The 
sensitive mouth set in firm, coarsened lines, the perspiration 
stood on his forehead. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 83 

Presently, with a determined gesture he touched a bell on 
the table. Almost at once Cleaver opened the door. 

“Yes, sir,” he said, his face like stone. 

“Whiskey, Cleaver, and vichy.” 

The men stared at each other. A silent battle waged 
between them. 

“Damn you, Cleaver, why do you stand there? When I 
say whiskey—you know the game’s up—I say—Whiskey, 
damn you; don’t stand there like a graven image.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

During the moments that Cleaver was absent there was no 
struggle in the mind of Compton—that had been waged and 
lost. He was waiting now as one does for ether that will 
deaden consciousness of pain! The twitching of his body 
was the signal of the coming on of an attack of the disease 
that haunted him like a malevolent demon; the whiskey 
would at least befog his senses and help to carry him over the 
black space that divided his times of normality. 

“To-morrow,” Compton’s face leered unpleasantly; 
“to-morrow, I will be writing my impressions of America.” 

And then he laughed the heavy mirthless laugh that 
marked his last sane border line. 


CHAPTER VII 



OMPTON was not a man to live in any community as 


a nonentity, and between the spells of his passionate 


devotion to the book he was supposed to be writing, 
he gave himself freely to his neighbours’ needs and whatever 
demands the small township made upon him, for in time 
people to a certain extent had accepted him. 

By training he was a lawyer, but his absence abroad had 
prevented any application of his profession to practical ends, 
and his fortune relieved him of any necessity to resort to it; 
still, now that he had definitely decided to remain in Middle 
Essex, he resolved to creep out of his seclusion and mingle 
with what it pleased him to call “his kind”—if his kind 
would accept him. 

His roaming life abroad had fitted rather than unfitted 
him for keen appreciation of this love of home, but it had been 
hard to combat the indifference of Middle Essex. Still, 
reaching out beyond Rose-Ann, he eventually touched 
others. 

He was at last entertained cordially; his generous donations 
were accepted, and often the appreciative thanks came as 
near to being fulsome as the New England characteristics 
permitted. 

“A bit overdone!” Compton often thought, and sighed. 
“I don’t want to buy them, God knows!” 

Compton could not conscientiously enlist his efforts in 
the Church. He had small sympathy with that especially as 
it was conducted in Essex. 

“I’d bet a round sum,” he often thought to himself, 
“that they’d cheerfully do to-day what they did a century 
or so ago—let some condemned wretch come into their 


THE TENTH WOMAN 85 

Holy Place in irons the Sunday before his execution and 
listen to his own funeral sermon. 

“God! what a state of mind. No understanding of the 
victory of defeat; no sympathy with the beaten one who went 
down fighting as they never have had to fight.” 

He recalled a conversation he had recently had with Trevall 
along this line. 

“I trust the man who never knew temptation more than 
the man—yes, who knew temptation and conquered it,” 
Trevall had said. 

Compton had disagreed rather vehemently. 

“In my bank,” Trevall had pursued, lifting his handsome, 
firm chin, “I want no man who could be tempted. 

“Why, Compton, Tve handled millions in my time and 
never for one moment-” 

Compton laughed aloud. 

“Of course not! Trevall,” he said at last, “that's why I 
wouldn't be sure of your kind in my bank. The time might 
come, you know.” 

At this Trevall stiffened. His conversations with Compton 
always came to sudden and abrupt ends. 

But if Compton could not join the churchly activities, 
there were social ones that appealed to him. 

He, one of the elect surely, resented the barbed-wire fence 
division between the old stock and the new. 

The lately come families in Essex, proper, were permitted, 
of course, to gaze through the wire entanglement at their 
superiors, but not one of them ever leaped the hurting obstacle 
that stood as a barrier between. 

A few had bruised and torn themselves, pressing on to a 
social-equality basis. 

“Who do the damned things think they are, anyway?” 
Andrew Conklin, head of the woollen mill in Essex, queried. 

Conklin had two pretty daughters and a rather fine son 
whom he was eager to see mount the ladder that he held 
firmly in place. But while Conklin served on all the business 
boards and was respected financially, he and his were never 
asked socially to those sacred gatherings in Middle Essex. 


86 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“He should confine himself to Essex,” Trevall explained 
to Compton on one occasion. “Are we, we old Americans, 
not to keep one acre of our country for our own peculiar 
tastes ?” 

“What, in the name of heaven, do Conklin and his kind 
want to edge in for?” Compton had returned. “Between 
ourselves, Trevall, we old Americans are stufFs when we 
segregate ourselves. It’s the leaven that helps every time. 
We ought to woo them.” 

So Compton as time went on drove in his big gray car to 
Essex almost daily and quietly took in the situation. 

He discovered, as he knew that he would, that Conklin was 
as keen a snob as Trevall. If Conklin did not exist for 
Trevall, on one side of the barbed wire, Conklin’s employees 
did not exist for him on the other side of the obstruction. 
And when one once began to investigate, he found himself in 
a maze of obstructions that bewildered and cramped every¬ 
body. 

“All right!” And Compton laughed good-naturedly. 
“I’ll deal in opportunities.” 

And so he started two or three things as a test to the public. 
This was before Rose-Ann’s engagement. 

He organized a club which was open to all who qualified. 
The qualification was—a desire to learn something. 

“Pd like t© get my kind in to learn humanity,” he hu¬ 
morously thought, “and Conklin’s in to learn common horse 
sense.” 

In the meantime, however, the long-suppressed school 
teachers and the vivid, wholesome little librarian rose to his 
bait and the Club, known as the Torch Light, became popu¬ 
lar. 

Eventually Compton had a really artistic house erected 
which was open every day and evening for classes in various 
crafts and trades; lectures and social gatherings. 

Instructors came from Boston and leaders were discovered 
in Essex. 

Naturally Rose-Ann became involved. She had never 
enjoyed anything more than the Torch Light. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


87 

It was really living—this running into Essex, either in her 
roadster or with Compton. She meant after her marriage 
definitely to assist Compton regularly. 

Often Rose-Ann remained all day at the Club House, 
either taking a course in one thing or another, or attending 
a session of some young girls’ or boys’ club. 

“Why, Barry!” she confided enthusiastically, “they’re 
just the livest things—I feel fairly mouldy beside them.” 

Seeing Miss Trevall enter the ranks, the Misses Conklin 
ventured in. This might, vicariously, bring about their 
own redemption socially, they believed. 

“If you want to have a real good time,” Rose-Ann told 
Braintree, “come in while the thing’s new.” 

But Braintree was too busy. It pleased him to consider 
that his time and talent were too valuable for side play. 

“All right for Compton,” he said to Rose-Ann. “With 
his money and idle hours, he’s got to find something to do.” 

“It’s a big, vital thing that he is doing, Billy,” Rose-Ann 
looked serious; “but he’s making it attractive. When a 
thing is attractive some folks think it is not work.” 

Rose-Ann nearly always ate her lunch, when in Essex, at 
the small, sunny cafeteria—an outgrowth of the Torch 
Light. The best of food was served, and the Conklin girls 
and Rose-Ann saw to it that it was served daintily and 
artistically. The mea of the town gradually came to it— 
Braintree, Conklin—but never Trevall. He still went to 
the commercial hotel where in the dim, sordid dining room 
he ate blindly what was offered and trusted to its cleanliness 
and nutrition. 

“It’s just putting ideas in their heads,” Prudence said 
loftily to Rose-Ann. 

“Of course!” Rose-Ann agreed; “what do you suppose? 
Barry is not wasting his thousands. Of course they are 
getting ideas.” 

“Well, it’s all wrong,” Prudence flushed indignantly, and 
brought forth her time-honoured ideals: “I guess God 
knew what He was about when He made differences.” 

“You make me sneeze, Prue,” Rose-Ann broke in, and 


88 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


proceeded to sneeze in a most insulting manner. “Some 
times when you speak the dust flies.” 

She and Prudence were sitting in the cretonne bedroom 
sewing on the wedding clothes just then. 

“Well, when you have got through sneezing,” Prudence 
never let go her argument, “I would like you to tell me, who 
is to do the rough, horrid, but necessary labour, if we are to let 
a certain class get ideas?” 

The sneezing ceased. 

“That God of yours must find a way out,” Rose-Ann 
flung back irreverently. “If He gave minds that can take 
in ideas, He must take the consequences, I guess. He can 
manage if we let Him alone.” 

“Rose-Ann, I should think you would be ashamed—and 
afraid. Such dreadful talk! I suppose Mr. Compton 
teaches you this.” Prudence never resorted to familiarity 
or nicknames. 

“He’s giving me ideas,” Rose-Ann smiled back, “and 
thank heaven, they fall on rich soil.” 

There was a silence. Prudence drew her lips close and 
hard. After a little Rose-Ann said placidly: 

“They are going to make all my dresses at the Club, Prue. 
That little dressmaker from Boston is the most original 
creature I ever saw. She is going to design them, and those 
funny girls from the mill are going to do the work—evenings.” 

“Father will never allow this, Rose-Ann.” Prudence 
was thoroughly roused. 

“But Mother will!” Rose-Ann whispered, and her face fell 
into fine lines. “Mother is very close to me these days, 
Prue.” 

And so the little designer, who adored Rose-Ann, began 
her work of love and so inspired the class from the mill that 
they strove valiantly to out-do one another after a long, hard 
day at machine or in the stock room. 

And while this was going on on the surface, there was an 
undercurrent making for the very foundations of Compton’s 
structure. 

“Giving them ideas,” was the keynote of the opposition 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


89 

from Prudence up to Trevall and down to Conklin. At 
this point the Old Order and the New were as brothers under 
the skin. Ideas were not good working principles when one 
got down to the lower strata. 

“Give them decent treatment, of course,” Conklin con¬ 
fided to Trevall, “and their glass or two at the tavern, and 
they’ll stay contented and happy. But I tell you, Trevall, 
this highfalutin talk of prohibition is dangerous. There is 
a class that must be kept down—to a certain extent, you 
know that.” 

Trevall nodded. He knew it—and he mentally included 
Conklin, but he dared not say so. 

“And a man will have his drink, Trevall. It is for you 
and me to see that he gets it pure and in moderation. That's 
our job.” 

Trevall squirmed. 

“As it is now,” Conklin proceeded, “those classes and 
lectures at the Club House are—yes, sir, affecting tradition 
and”—Conklin had decency to lower his voice—“and the 
Mill Tavern.” 

“They’ll get tired of the child’s play,” Trevall comforted. 
“You won’t get working men and women to keep up this sort 
of thing long. They must have diversion—and as for 
prohibition, Mr. Conklin”—Trevall kept the titles of people 
pure—“we need not fear that. American rights can look 
out for themselves and, as you say, it is for men of ability to 
look after the common decencies. We are our brothers’ 
keepers, Mr. Conklin, as we very well know.” 

At the Mill Tavern the new Club was also discussed. 
Whatever effect the “ideas” had upon the few, there was a 
goodly number who were not affected in the least degree by 
them. Nightly in the smoky barroom the faithful gathered 
to sneer, laugh, and drink. 

They knew “what was what”; they knew on which side 
their bread was buttered. They’d see that their women did 
not get “ideas” and turn on them! 

“And what does that dude think he’s up to, anyway?” was 
the general query about Compton. 


90 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“Living abroad, damn him, and getting all fussed up and 
then starting things so as to get himself popular? 

“Do you know—” it was Pat Brady, the spokesman of the 
“Nightlies,” who held the floor—“do you know what was 
handed out ter me the other day? His man Cleaver let it 
spill. That guy Compton is writing a book. Yes, sir. Writing 
about what strikes him in America—now he’s come home. 
And by the Lord! if he ain’t using us all for pulling his 
chestnuts; this is his way—to get his ear to the ground. 
This Club of his is his spy centre.” 

The effect of this speech took form in an ugly growl. 

“An’ him riding around in his bloated car!” a sullen voice 
broke in; “that’s the way with these tops—keeping clear of 
everything—and being damned generous with what they 
have too much of. 

“I’d like to get my ear to his ground, by God! and tell 
that bunch up to the Club what kind of a flaming torch 
they’re following.” 

A roar went up at this. 

After a spell of digestion a new subject was introduced. 

“What’s this talk of shutting down on the drinks?” 

“Rot!” said Brady. “Forget it! This ain’t Russia nor 
yet Kingdom Come.” 

And the action and reaction smouldered, flared, died down 
but never died out. 

On the 24th of September, Rose-Ann was married in the 
little Presbyterian church at Essex. 

If Trevall, as he gave his pretty daughter to Braintree, 
thought of that day thirty-five years before when he had 
stood beside Faith Adams in her home town, he gave no sign. 
Stern, handsome, inwardly relieved, he passed over to 
Braintree’s authority the wide-eyed, sweetly serious Rose- 
Ann. 

The wedding gown was lovely, even Prudence had to admit 
that. It was part of the girl’s personality; it was an ex¬ 
pression of herself—not even of the designer’s—though no 
one knew that. 

Barry Compton, seated among the elect, because he was 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


9i 

of the elect, caught, for the first time as he watched Braintree, 
the significance of Rose-Ann’s early impression of him. 

“By heaven! the fellow has a crystallized look,” he 
thought, “there’s more to him than I’ve suspected.” 

Braintree was making his vows at the moment and his 
face was transfigured. He looked at Rose-Ann as though 
accepting, with fear and manly doubt, a tremendous re¬ 
sponsibility. 

“He isn’t a conceited ass, anyway,” Compton concluded: 
“and Rose-Ann may smash the hold that has been handed 
down to him.” 

Rose-Ann’s “I will,” stirred Compton strangely. It was 
not the careless, passionate “I will” of the average girl. It 
seemed to hold a reservation. It was as though the girl 
spoke to Braintree and her God. “I will, so long as my soul 
can.” 

And how unutterably appealing she was; how she had 
grown. Compton, who was so lonely, so hungry for human 
ties, so weak, yet so strong, looked yearningly at the young 
wife. 

“And she will come back after a few weeks; come back 
and help me.” His thoughts rambled on. “Things would 
be more permanent in the future. Another man might have 
taken her physically afar.” At that moment Compton was 
grateful to Braintree. Then he thought on, his eyes still on 
the pair at the altar. 

“The chap positively looks as if he appreciated her.” 

Then as the two were passing down the aisle, Rose-Ann 
looked at Compton with her big, misty eyes and he heard her 
whisper as she neared his pew: 

“Barry, dear—Mother’s close—do you see her?” 

And almost Compton thought that he did, but the vision 
melted into the solid, practical face of Prudence Townsend, 
who almost jubilantly trailed after her sister. 

A great load was, at that hour, lifted from John Trevall 
and Prudence. From now on, no matter what happened, it 
would be Braintree’s affair, not theirs! 

Braintree and Rose-Ann went away for three weeks. They 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


92 

saw cities, briefly, superficially—for Braintree, like Trevall, 
saw nothing in any city to compare with Boston. They 
roamed, at Rose-Ann’s suggestion, in mountain places where 
the autumn colouring was at its finest. 

“Do you know, Billy,” the girl whispered one evening as 
she stood with Braintree among the Vermont hills, “on one 
of our trips I want to see what the big, wonderful West is 
like. Barry has a friend there who sends him the most 
breath-taking pictures.” These pictures were an outcome 
of a new correspondence. 

“My sweet,” Braintree said, “after this we must settle 
down to business, you and I. We cannot afford many trips 
for some time to come. Besides, I am no lover of travel. 
Of course we’ll run into Boston now and then—and we have 
our beaches for the summer. I do not mean to become 
cramped—but ” 

“ But, Billy, you might as well get used to me. I shall plan 
always for—things to do and some of them will come true.” 

“‘Stay-at-home hearts are happiest’,” quoted Braintree, 
touching Rose-Ann’s shining head with his lips. 

“Pooh, Billy—don’t get wedged.” 

“You will let your hair grow, Rose-Ann?” 

“Why?” 

“Well—a married woman-” 

“Pooh! pish! Billy.” 

“My darling—will you never grow into a woman?” 

“Of course I will—until death doth me end.” 

“Don’t speak of death, my wife!” 

“Oh! Billy, you are a dear; and if anything could com¬ 
pensate me for being a little girl and having my own way, 
it would be being married to you and”—impishly—“making 
you give up your way. Just think, Billy, we’re going to 
make our life just what we want it-” 

“We, darling?” A lurking shade prompted the emphasis 
on the pronoun. 

“Of course, Billy. I’m not a selfish beast. I’m quite 
tractable when I’m pulling in team, but I’m not going to 
have our life like Prue’s and Albert’s.” 





THE TENTH WOMAN 


93 


“They are happy, Rose-Ann.” 

“Well, I’m thankful they are—but I would be desperate. 
I want-” 

“What, my precious?” 

“Oh! to add something new to life. Put something in 
it—not just plod on.” 

“I don’t want you to be restless, Rose-Ann.” Braintree 
was strangely uneasy. 

This lovely, sweet thing had given herself to him gravely, 
beautifully, but he was always conscious of a withholding 
even in the most ecstatic moments. Already a desire was 
being born in him, not to conquer her reserve, but to dispel 
it by his love and devotion. He did not feel safe while it 
existed. 

“She will be at peace when she can trust absolutely,” he 
reasoned, “and if there was not something in the darling 
for me to prove my love to—I could not love her so well.” 

The honeymoon was devoted to this worthy end. 

And in Middle Essex, Compton by bribes and cajolery 
and general good nature kept the men at work on Rose-Ann’s 
house on the hill—the first house in Far Essex. 

The garden, at the start, was to be one of Compton’s gifts 
to Rose-Ann, and while carpenter, plumber, and mason 
worked day m and out and others worked on special jobs, 
gardeners planned and plotted to utilize rocks and woo the 
long-sleeping soil to its duty. 

“Let there be a little tea house on that rock,” Compton 
suggested; “sort of work up to that.” 

The gardener, who was also an artist, saw the possibilities. 

So the seeds were planted in the hope of a glorious resurrec¬ 
tion. When the Braintrees came back to Middle Essex, a 
miracle seemed to have been wrought on the hill. 

“Oh! Barry,” Rose-Ann exclaimed, standing with him, 
not her husband, the day after her return; “you are a wizard. 
I believe by November we will be in. ‘In —isn’t that a 
ducky idea? In our house; our home! Another lovely 
thing to potter at and make grow into a shape that we see 
now like a vision.” 


94 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“Are you happy, Rose-Ann?” Compton was watching 
her. 

“Very, Barry.” The girl looked at him frankly. “I was 
afraid, dear. It was quite the most terrible thing I ever 
did—that going away with Billy. It was such an awful 
chance. Such a liberty to take with Fate. But it’s all 
right, Barry, all right. After the first week—it was like 
letting go and taking hold of his hand without any fear at 
all.” 

“That’s about the biggest thing a man can hope to obtain 
from such a girl as you, Rose-Ann.” 

“Yes; isn’t it—from any girl. He never exacted any¬ 
thing, Barry—and that made me want to love him and make 
him happy—he asked so little.” 

“He’ll ask more, Rose-Ann. That’s very human.” 

“Well, now he’s won out, I can trust. I know my man. 
I want to give—and he will understand my withholding. I 
am not really a mean, selfish egoist, Barry. Always I have 
wanted to give—I only resented being forced to give.” 

And just before Thanksgiving, Rose-Ann and Braintree 
were in their lovely little house. 

“We’re going to go slow and make no mistakes, dear 
folks,” Rose-Ann explained, “but there are chairs and 
dishes enough and two of the mill girls demand that I let 
them help and so—come to Billy and me on our first heavenly 
Thanksgiving. Father, Prue, Albert, and Barry. You’ll 
see what the girls and I can do to a turkey and fixin’s.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


I T WOULD have been difficult for the most observing 
to have told just when Braintree took the reins of 
government into his own hands. 

His kindly, genial good nature had from the first blinded 
Rose-Ann. When she was bent in her old home upon gain¬ 
ing her ends, a determined opposition had made her irritable 
and ill-natured, but Braintree took another course. It 
always was a source of wonder to Rose-Ann suddenly to find 
that Braintree had got his way while she was complimenting 
herself upon her own handling of the situation. And if, at a 
moment of defeat, she flared in impatient passion, it was 
Braintree who tenderly, lovingly soothed and condoned—but 
he never gave up his point! 

“I think William is a saint,” Prudence confided to Albert 
in their holy of holies. “He keeps his temper always, and 
Rose-Ann is very trying.” 

Albert shook his head ominously as he drew off his practi¬ 
cal gray woollen socks. 

“A man cannot expect much rest with such a tempera¬ 
mental girl as Rose-Ann,” he said. “That sort of thing is 

entertaining enough as a side show, but-” 

Prudence came across the room to her husband. 

“I suit you, don’t I, Albert?” 

“You certainly do, Prudence. I know where to find you. 
To a busy man that is about the greatest thing going in a 
wife.” 

Prudence was comforted. It was always a hurting thing 
for her to see Rose-Ann considered, applauded, and adored 
while openly neglecting and often rejecting her plain 
duties. 

Prudence was one of the women who would never be con- 
95 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


9 6 

tent with her virtues appreciated. She demanded, silently, 
often sullenly, that the shortcomings of others should be 
openly used as a foil for her superiority. 

“Do you know, dear,” Prudence was now brushing her 
straight, shining hair, “Rose-Ann has taken one of the mill 
girls—for a helper.” 

“Paying her?” asked Albert—his bare feet were stretched 
to the small fire on the hearth, just fire enough to last until 
bed time; the furnace was not yet started. 

“Of course. Eighteen dollars a month,” Prudence snapped. 

“And what does Rose-Ann do with her own time?” 

“Oh! she spends hours with Mr. Compton. I call it 
shameful. They study seed catalogues and tree planting as 
they should their Bibles. And then Rose-Ann is teaching 
English at the Torch Light Club. She squares herself with 
her conscience by saying that those low, dirty foreigners 
cannot think in American until they can read and talk in 
American. Silly! As if they ever could think American. 
And that girl she’s taken has had two”—Prudence blushed 
crimson and dropped her eyes—“babies”; she whispered; 
“two! A girl might make a slip once—but never twice. 
Rose-Ann says she’s going to try to keep her from having a 
third; she calls that Christian—but / call it flying in the face 
of God and man.” 

“Rose-Ann usually flies in that direction,” Albert inter¬ 
jected slowly. “But what is Braintree thinking about?” 

“He is a saint!” Prudence went back to her original 
statement as she always did. “A perfect saint.” 

Outside, the wildest kind of an early December storm was 
howling and driving. Before it, snow and sleet came like 
the vanguard of a great army. The trees caught and held 
the icy particles; the drifts rose by the hour. 

At Rose-Ann’s house the furnace and several fireplaces 
were in action. The rooms were warm and bright. 

Braintree wanted to go upstairs to bed, it was nine-thirty— 
but Rose-Ann never could be induced to accept early hours. 

“Why, Billy, when are we to get acquainted except from 
6.30 to 11.30? Breakfast is a hustle, and business—ugh! is a 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


97 

regular slave driver, but when you come home to dinner—and 
they are bully little dinners, aren’t they, Billy?” 

William had to admit that they were. 

“Well, after dinner with our tummies and our souls at 
peace, you and I have to live, Billy-Boy, live!” 

Braintree looked through drooping lids at the bright thing 
near him. Rose-Ann sat upon a chair as a bird sits upon a 
branch. 

“What are you doing, Rose-Ann?” he asked. 

“Making a giddy dress for Patsy O’Brien.” 

Patsy was the helper in the kitchen; the girl who had de¬ 
parted from the way of virtue twice. 

Braintree opened his eyes wider now, and pulled himself up. 

“Rose-Ann, I object to your management of that girl.” 

“Do you, Billy? Well, lean back and take it easy—this 
is my responsibility.” 

“Have you any responsibilities, Rose-Ann, that are not 
mine ?” 

“Heaps, Billy.” 

“That girl fell through her—her weak desires,” Braintree 
spoke calmly, most tolerantly, “and now you cater to them. 
She will never learn her lesson with such treatment.” 

“Billy, she’ll never learn it without. The first time she 
sold herself, Billy.” Rose-Ann held the small, dainty gar¬ 
ment at arm’s length. “She wanted to go to a picnic with a 
boy she loved, but who was ashamed to go with her in her 
shabby duds. Her people took every cent she earned; the 
child worked hard and had nothing. Well—she went to the 
picnic, poor little Hessian, and—well! you know how it ended. 
The boy gave her up-” 

“And quite properly. Surely, Rose-Ann, you don’t 
think he should have kept on? A girl who, you admit, sold 
herself for finery?” 

Braintree was very much awake now. 

“Well, I don’t think he mattered one way or the other. 
But why don’t you get stirred to your depths, Billy, about the 
beast that was willing to take poor Patsy’s stupid offering of 

herself?” 



9 8 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“Rose-Ann, you amaze me!” Braintree wa 3 indignant. 
“I am not defending him or any one else,” he added, “but 
no matter how one may regard this girl’s first offence, there 
can be nothing said in defence of her second lapse.” 

“Oh! yes, there can be.” Rose-Ann flushed brightly. 

“When the poor creature was down and out—and a butt 
for everyone; it must have been almost a delirious triumph 
to find that she could command attention from another man! 

“Oh! I know, Billy, if she had been a high-minded blue- 
blood she would have died rather—etc., etc. But if she had 
been a patrician she wouldn’t have been working in those 
deadly mills day in and out with every natural yearning 
starved”; there were tears in Rose-Ann’s eyes, and suddenly 
Braintree recalled with a sinking sensation Rose-Ann’s de¬ 
fence of her long-buried ancestor that day when he had 
insisted upon marriage at once. After being his wife for 
several months she had apparently caught no sterner aspect 
of morality. This was disheartening to say the least. 

“I feel—oh! I feel,” Rose-Ann was saying, “that I cannot 
do enough for such girls as Patsy, because people like you, 
me—‘our kind’—just let them wallow in mud and then throw 
the mud on them if they wade up out of it. 

“I’m going to give Patsy some of the things she loves with¬ 
out asking her to pay as some men do! She shall have 
pretty dresses and not be worked so hard that she cannot 
enjoy them. I’m going to get some of those girls at the Club 
to help me and Barry is going to bully the boys into decent 
common sense; we’re going to save Patsy from a third wal¬ 
low.” There were defiance and passion in Rose-Ann’s eyes. 

“Compton is going to get himself into trouble yet, Rose- 
Ann,” Braintree said, shifting his position. “And that 
brings me to another point. I wish, dear, that you would 
not be so intimate with Compton. 

“You know, I am sure, that I would not deny you any¬ 
thing that is a pleasure, but you are no longer a young girl 
regarding Compton—old enough to be your father. You are 
a married woman, darling-” 

Rose-Ann deliberately folded the gaudy but dainty pink 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


99 


frock, and laid it aside with a little pat. Then she came 
over to Braintree, leaning an arm against the stone of the 
chimney, while she looked upon him with a curious blending 
of love and aversion. 

“Marriage is a great test, isn’t it, Billy?” she asked. 
“We’ve got to take awfully good care of the tie that binds or 
it may—snap!” 

“Rose-Ann!” 

“Yes, Billy, I mean it. I want to keep your love and ap¬ 
proval. I’m like a cat. I like to be smoothed—but not the 
wrong way. And, ducky, don’t you think it is quite as im¬ 
portant that you should learn not to brush me the wrong way, 
as for me not to brush you ?” 

“But there are some standards, my love,” Braintree 
smiled up at the lovely face. “You admit that?” 

“Of course. Yours; mine; everyone has standards—even 
Patsy. She told me to-day that she’d never tell who harmed 
her, not if there were hundreds of them!” 

Braintree shuddered and Rose-Ann laughed. 

“I know, dear,” she went on. “I merely wanted to prove 
that I agreed with you about standards. I will never be 
disloyal to you, dear old Billy, and you know it; but I will 
never give up old friends or lay aside such work as I find to 
do at the Torch Light. Of course”—here Rose-Ann looked 
impishly mischievous—“I realize that you, my husband, 
have the right to my services—or their equivalent. And, 
Billy, do me justice—I pay Patsy’s wages!” 

Braintree’s face grew stern. 

“You must not speak in that strain, my dear,” he said. 
“Between husband and wife the sentiment should gloss the 
crude details. What is mine is yours. Why should we 
split hairs?” 

“To show how sharp and keen the blade is, Billy. I’m 
rather daffy about sentiment, dear, but I hate sentimental¬ 
ity ” 

“Darling! Come here.” Braintree opened his arms to 
her. “We must not speak so to each other.” 

“Forgive me!” whispered Rose-Ann as she sank into his 


IOO 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


arms. But Braintree did not echo this—he simply kissed 
the dear lips and laughed a little. 

If only the great meanings of life came as great meanings 
few of us would become involved, but they come in so many 
guises and are often decked with wreaths of poison ivy instead 
of laurel. With a man so kindly, sweet-tempered, and 
tolerant as Braintree it was difficult to hold to a point that 
after all seemed non-essential. 

But every lapse with such a man is but to clinch the things 
that sooner or later will rise gauntly to confront one, and it 
calls forth—subterfuge. 

When a man tells a woman that she is all the world to him— 
and means it; when he sets her upon the throne of his heart 
and pays homage to her—it would seem brutal, crass in¬ 
gratitude to suggest to him that so narrow a realm cramps 
rather than glorifies existence. 

“I have no great ambition,” Braintree confided to Rose- 
Ann along about the first of the year when promotions at 
the bank and increased salaries were under consideration. 
“I could never enter the ranks of pushing, coarse men, dear 
heart. I am a hard worker and love my work, but I am 
content with enough—and you; my home and the beautiful 
things that have no money price or value.” 

This sounded so fine and noble that to attack it made 
Rose-Ann feel a bit gross. But she did speak out rather more 
fumblingly than critically. 

“But, dearie,” she said, “everyone is ambitious. Every¬ 
one wants to stretch his muscles and grow up to the best 
that is in him.” 

“Dear little fool!” murmured Braintree fondly. 

In years ahead Braintree was to look back on the moments 
when he called Rose-Ann a “little fool” as the most satis¬ 
factory of his life. Their relations then could tolerate the 
title as a joke. 

He felt so strong and superior; she so sweet and ignorant. 
Braintree was not a man to enjoy his mental equals, he loved 
to be looked up to when it did not require too much exertion 
or a change of base. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


IOI 


But this time Rose-Ann did not reply to his “little fool” 
with a pout and a flick of a kiss at his nonsense. They were 
at the breakfast table and the remains of Patsy's good 
breakfast lay between them. 

“And as for the men you despise, Billy, they are the men 
with whom you must deal. Is it easier to be their slaves 
than their compeers and—perhaps their masters? You see, 
if you really have higher ideals, it would seem a duty to rise 
and project them into business.” 

“My darling”—Braintree was bored—“when you talk 
business, you are out of your depths. You must leave that 
to me. I know my own limitations and my own superior¬ 
ities. I am no man's slave, but if my talents, such as they 
are, mean anything, they mean devotion to duty as I see 
it—and not to unrest, and aspirations to reach what I am in 
no wise fitted for.” 

Braintree rose and looked at his watch. 

“Come, dear, kiss me. I must be off*.” 

Rose-Ann went close to him; something of pity stirred her 
loyal affection, and it shamed her while it did not reflect 
upon him. 

“I am ambitious for you, dear,” she whispered. “I want 
to see you succeed—a wife does, you know. I want to feel 
that by and by—oh! years ahead, Billy—when all our 
children are married and in homes of their own—that I can 
still think you the biggest thing on foot. 

“You see, darling old boy, a woman does love a bit of the 
master in her husband, but a woman cannot follow unless—- 
her husband is a master.” 

But Braintree closed her lips with a passionate kiss. 

“Little fool of mine!” he murmured. “I do not wish to 
lead you or drive you—I am content with you, my blessed. 
I ask little more because I have so much now. You're a 
wonder, Rose-Ann. 

“And now I must go to—to my duties. I may not be the 
biggest thing in port, you child; but I can keep the little 
nest cosy.” 

And after he went Rose-Ann sat down and thought the 


102 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


talk over. A vague unrest possessed her. She knew that 
she and Braintree were both right and wrong. What was 
wrong? what was right? That was the trouble. 

She went through her day with a haze enfolding her and 
she did not talk it over with Barry Compton. Subterfuge 
had taken root. 

Recently Compton had been in seclusion. He had come 
forth from his “ writing room” rather more worn than usual. 

Rose-Ann met him the day of her talk with Braintree, 
walking down the hill toward Essex. Rose-Ann was in her 
runabout. The snow and ice had been smoothed on the 
road to marble hardness and the chained wheels hardly left an 
impression. 

“Get in, Barry.” Rose-Ann stopped. “Why on foot?” 

“I needed the exercise, Rose-Ann, but Til forego it since 
it’s you! How are things going at the Club?” 

“ Fine, Barry, just fine. Now keep your face straight while 
I tell you something. Patsy is taking a course in domestic 
science and that Brady boy—the one you snatched from the 
burning—is deeply impressed by Patsy and her course.” 

“That’s all right,” Compton did not smile; “the girl is 
just as good as he is—better in many ways. I tell you, 
Rose-Ann, the older I grow the more I am convinced that 
people are like some vegetables. Layer upon layer can be 
peeled off before you strike the real heart of the thing.” 

“Like an onion?” Rose-Ann suggested. 

“Or an artichoke,” Compton added. Then went quietly 
on: “The damnable fuss that has been made about a woman 
going wrong while men have escaped the lash doing things far 
more harmful to the race! Drinking and loose living. 

“A man is mighty particular as to whom he shall marry. 
That’s all right, but why doesn’t he consider whether he is 
fit to marry or not? It gives me a bad turn, Rose-Ann, 
when I think of it.” 

The little car sped along under the blue January sky. 

“You’re edgy, Barry,” Rose-Ann said. “You write too 
hard. After all, who cares what you think of America now 
that you are with us ? Who cares what any one thinks ?—it’s 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


103 


the fun of cleaning America up and washing off her smears 
that counts and, Barry, you are doing such heavenly work in 
Essex! 

“Why, the Tavern writhes under what you are doing; 
that fat old Conklin is positively scared and talks strikes 
and violence for propaganda. He acts as if he believed you 
had a club under your coat. The old, mean slave driver! 
I know a thing or two about him from Patsy. Barry, it is 
when you know both sides that you understand. ,, 

“Yes. Why in thunder doesn’t everyone see that?” 
Compton sighed. 

“Barry, you are tuckered out!” Rose-Ann moved nearer 
to him. 

“You are on my mind, sir. Cleaver is all right for a 
graven image that has been electrified; the servants are all 
right, but, Barry, it is creeping into my conscience that you 
need a real bossy woman in your plan of existence. 

“Barry, why haven’t you married? I never thought of it 
before.” 

This half-laughing question had a strange effect—Comp¬ 
ton turned deep, pain-filled eyes on the girl. 

“I’m glad you can speak that way, child, in so light a tone. 
Only a happy woman could,” he said. 

It was Rose-Ann’s turn to be serious now. 

“One’s own is very sweet, Barry,” she whispered. “Some¬ 
thing at the day’s end that wants you more than all the world 
besides. Something that, right or wrong, stands by you! 
You have to pay something for that luxury. You are a 
lonely man, Barry.” 

This was dangerous in Compton’s mood. 

“I am lonely,” he said gloomily; “I’m not such an ass as 
not to know that you are speaking—truth. 

“Rose-Ann, do you know anything of my father?” 

Rose-Ann coloured. It was only recently that she had 
heard what was intended as a warning where Compton was 
concerned; it had but further enlisted her sympathy. 

“Yes, I have heard,” she said quietly, “but I do not see 
how that could affect you, Barry.” 


104 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“When a man breaks the heart of the woman he loves, 
because of the weakness that is in him—his child had better 
watch out, Rose-Ann, if he has been able to keep his soul and 
conscience alive. We New Englanders are proud enough of 
our stiff virtues and the inheritances they involve—we 
overlook the fact that our damnable traits run down the 
line as well.” 

“Barry, that’s man’s way; not God’s.” 

“God!” Compton laughed lightly. “God! Well, God 
exacts toll, Rose-Ann, like every other master. That’s all 
right. But we haven’t any right to make others pay. 

“Rose-Ann, I don’t know why I say this to you—but I 
want to keep your friendship on honest terms—my father 
was a big, a real man except for a taint that somehow 
grew stronger as the better qualities dwindled. He made 
hell of life for my mother and me—we all clung together 
and went through the furnace with him. He committed 
suicide.” 

“Yes, that is what I heard.” Rose-Ann quivered. 

“Mother couldn’t stand that. She died.” Compton 
spoke reverently. “Died with uplifted head, and as she 
died she said to me—‘now you are free’.” 

“Please take the wheel, Barry. I am crying.” Rose- 
Ann’s voice broke. 

Compton took the wheel grimly, not even remarking upon 
the tears. 

“Free!” he said, “free! as if any one can be free who 
passes through such a furnace—there’s bound to be the 
smell of smoke on him—and a fear of burns.” 

“Poor, dear Barry! But you were free, dear.” Rose- 
Ann patted his sleeve. 

“Free? Yes; in a way. Free to play the rest of the 
game without damage to others. 

“Rose-Ann, I have never been able to see any woman 
without seeing my mother beside her. When I knew your 
mother it gave me a positive shock, for she was so like my 
mother. I believe women who suffer have a family re¬ 
semblance. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


105 

“No; the men of my line ought not to chance it—with 
women, Rose-Ann.” 

“Barry, why do you grieve me so? Of course, you are all 
wrong. You could make a woman so happy; you could be 
so happy. Why, dear old Barry—even if the thing that 
held your father was in you, it is not like you to let it beat 
you. At least you could down it or die with it!” 

“For God's sake, Rose-Ann, don’t!” 

There were a few minutes of silence. Essex with its smoke 
and bustle loomed near, the white snow was grimy under the 
wheels. 

“The time may come, Rose-Ann”—Compton had relin¬ 
quished the wheel—“when you will have to decide about me 
for yourself. Essex is rumbling, as you know. The people 
are not all with me. They’ll try to get back at me—some 
way. Conklin has intimated this. 

“They may come out with some ugly things and some of 
them, a part of some of them, may be true. But I want you 
to know this for God’s truth. Where I most have failed, I 
may wish to keep others from failure. Because I know—I 
am out to help others.” 

“I am sure of that, Barry.” 

“And now, Rose-Ann, let us get down to business. 

“What do you think of a course of lectures—illustrated 
ones?” 

“They’d love it, Barry. Something that will amuse them; 
make them happy.” 

“Exactly. Do it with a laugh.” 

Compton was quite himself again. 

“They are often so tired, Barry; so groggy. I don’t 
wonder they do wrong. Why isn’t it made as easy to do 
right as to do wrong, Barry? There’s always the Tavern; 
why not the show?” 

“There’s the churches, Rose-Ann, you overlook that. 

And then they both laughed. 

“They don’t want to be told how bad they are,” Rose- 
Ann said at length. “They want to forget it. They are 
just like children. 


io6 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“I once heard of a man who sent his little, bad girl to close 
the front gate, and think what he said, Barry: ‘By the time 
she comes back she will have seen so much she will have 
forgot her badness’.” 

“That’s ripping.” Compton stretched himself. 

“Let’s send the children to the gate, Rose-Ann, even if 
others want to send us to hell for doing it.” 

“We need not go to hell,” Rose-Ann put her foot on the 
brake. “Sending isn’t—consigning, Barry. I want to do 
something for Middle Essex this winter, too. We’re getting 
fearfully prosy. 

“I’m going to try to get up dances and card parties and 
other frivols; will you help?” 

“Count on me, Rose-Ann, but you’re in for trouble.” 

It was easy for them both to laugh now. 

“I’m not looking for easy jobs!” Rose-Ann said at 
length. “I’ve always wanted to do things, Barry, but 
hadn’t anywhere to do them. In my own house, sir, I am 
mistress. You’ll see. They’ll come out of curiosity—and 
remain to enjoy themselves. 

“Barry Compton, Mrs. William Braintree is going to set 
the pace! 

“Where do you want to get out?” 

“I don’t want to get out at all, Rose-Ann, but if I must 
be dumped, set me down at the Bank. 

“Did you ever think, Rose-Ann, what fun it would be 
to get into a car and go-” 

“Until the gas ran out?” Rose-Ann’s eyes twinkled. 

“Yes. And then get more and go on.” 

“It would be jolly—a big car full,” Rose-Ann came to a 
jerkless pause. 

“I was thinking of a roadster,” Compton replied, laughing. 

At that instant Braintree came out of the Bank. 

“Mr. Compton,” Rose-Ann was saying, “are you for¬ 
getting that I am Mrs. William Braintree?” 

Then she turned and saw Braintree. 

“Billy,” she called, “want me to take you to lunch to¬ 
day?” 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


107 


Braintree merely stopped long enough to say: 

“Sorry, dear, but I have no time for lunch—in your under¬ 
standing of that term. A bite taken when I have a moment 
is all I can manage.” 

And Rose-Ann went her way feeling at odds with herself 
and life. Braintree had put her distinctly in the wrong. 

“Well,” she vowed, “Fll have to make it up to him in 
some way.” 


CHAPTER IX 


I T WAS with this determination to “make it up” to Brain¬ 
tree that Rose-Ann approached the subject of the 
festivities she had planned for Middle Essex. 

“My dear girl!” Braintree said, relaxing in his easy 
chair before the roaring fire of the living room after dinner. 
“I don’t play cards, nor do I dance.” 

“But, Billy, you can learn. That would be half the fun.” 
“I’m not that kind of man, darling. I’m sorry, but life 
has been too serious a job for me, I’m afraid. Partly 
working one’s way through college and getting into harness 
at once are not things conducive to frivolity.” 

“Now, Billy, dearie, do listen to me. It’s exactly because 
of all that that I want you to play—really play. You 
played tennis, dear, before we were married.” 

But Braintree shook his head. 

He ignored the reference to tennis. 

“Are you beginning to tire of your sober old husband?” 
he asked, and gave the patient, cheerful smile that always had 
the effect of making Rose-Ann sorry for him and contemp¬ 
tuous of herself. Instantly her quick sympathy and tender¬ 
ness were enlisted. 

She saw the marks of strain and weariness on Braintree’s 
face; those signs that marked the faces of so many men. 
Compared to their rigid, compelling lives, the ease and leisure 
of a certain class of women seemed selfish and brutal. No 
wonder, so Rose-Ann brooded, that men demanded to be paid 
for such privilege—if that was what women called it—in a 
coin that she held in contempt. 

Rose-Ann’s own economic independence had less to do with 
her state of mind than many would have been willing to 
grant. She was prepared to deal justly with the marriage 

108 


THE TENTH WOMAN 109 

relation, but what she gave, she gave from love and loyalty— 
not for privilege. 

She looked very thoughtfully at Braintree now, then said 
more seriously than she often spoke: 

“No, Billy, I am not tired of you and you’re not old, and 
I’m keen against your ever becoming stupid. That is what 
I’m trying to guard against. At times”—her breath came 
quicker—“we seem to be settling into a groove as Father and 
Mother did.” She paused and then went on: 

“I’d like our home to be a jolly little centre where people 
would love to come—tired people like you—and play and 
talk and just forget wearying things for a time. I’d like to 
contribute something.” 

“I am afraid, little wife,” and Braintree was earnest also, 
“that we have different views of life. We must try to be 
tolerant with each other. Now I should like nothing better, 
at the day’s end, than to read with you—serious, good read¬ 
ing. I’d like to see you happy and content—right by the 
west window in summer, or in the porch, or in that little tea 
garden; in winter by the fire—sewing, knitting.” 

The domestic picture had for some reason a most humor¬ 
ous aspect for Rose-Ann; she leaned back and laughed 
hysterically. 

Braintree watched her with alarm. 

“Billy, I simply—cannot be that kind of a—of a—lady!” 
she burst forth at last. “It would finish me. You don’t 
know it, old boy, but you’d hate it, too. There’s not enough 
of me to make over. Still, if you don’t want cards and danc¬ 
ing and frivoling I will not have them here. This is your 
house as well as mine and you’ve given in a lot to me about 
furnishing and—Patsy and things like that.” 

“Are you unhappy, my darling?” Braintree was all 
tenderness now. 

“No—only squelched.” 

“Rose-Ann!” 

“Well, I do feel so, Billy. You must not misunderstand, 
dear, but I feel as if I were dragging an anchor.” She looked 
out over the lovely hills behind which the sun was setting. 


no 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“I like my harbour, but I don’t want anchors! All my 
life, Billy, Tve pulled against things. I thought-” 

She paused, and Braintree came close to her. He was 
gaining point after point; he liked anchors, and he was 
supremely content in the belief that drag as she might, Rose- 
Ann, his wife, was safely anchored. 

Braintree could not put this into words, but it gave him 
poise. 

“Dear little wife,” he whispered, “can you not see that 
all this is due to your own restlessness? Your father’s 
home; this home—everything is as near perfect as one could 
plan—you must get over the desire for change and new 
experiences, my dear. They will never bring you peace and 
they threaten our happiness.” 

This sounded so plausible that Rose-Ann tossed her sunny 
mane and threw herself into Braintree’s arms. He enfolded 
her rapturously. 

“And you’ll be good?” he whispered. 

“No, sir!” in muffled tones. “I think I’ll fly into atoms. 
You’d better watch out.” 

“Kiss me, Rose-Ann!” 

This was an easy thing to do and Rose-Ann complied 
eagerly. 

It was in the early spring that Rose-Ann ran up to Comp¬ 
ton’s one evening. Braintree was at the Bank. Frequently, 
now, he spent evenings there, “plugging away” as he called 
it. This plugging made Rose-Ann feel guilty. 

“You’re an expensive little luxury,” Braintree had said. 
He really knew that she was not. But in his scheme of 
things a helpless, pretty, dependent wife was as natural an 
adjunct as his daily bath. 

Rose-Ann found Compton in his library under the inverted 
dome of electric lights. He looked thin and worn. He had 
the evening paper in his hands and his eyes were twinkling. 

“Barry, I thank my own little, private God,” Rose-Ann 
exclaimed, dancing up to him, “that there is a man or 
two left for me to relax with. What are you reading, 
Barry?” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


hi 


“Oh, another one of these comical, impudent articles that 
are running in the Criticism .” 

“Oh!” said Rose-Ann and sat down rather heavily. 

“Have you seen them, Rose-Ann? Clever, devilish 
clever they are. They are called ‘Chips from Plymouth 
Rock*.” 

“I’ve seen one or two,” Rose-Ann replied. “Are they 
good, Barry?” 

“They are impish. They dress folks up in such thin clothes 
that you can see the man or woman, the real man or woman, 
right through them. They’re exaggerated and crude, but 
they are true. I make a guess that they are written by a 
bitter rebel against Puritanism; a rebel that knows what he 
is rebelling against, by heaven!” 

“Barry, I want to tell you something.” 

“You usually do, Rose-Ann. I’m listening.” 

“I was at the Torch Light this afternoon, Barry; the 
Conklin girls were there—it was my English class, you know. 
They said their father was in a rage over those articles— 
especially the one of Thursday, called ‘Jamming into Ply¬ 
mouth Rock/ They said their father knew that it was 
meant for him! And oh! Barry, they think you are writing 
those articles.” 

Compton laid the paper down and stared. 

“7 write them?” he asked confusedly. “7 write them? 
Why, that’s absurd. I wish that I could fling off such 
smart, acrid bits—it would be fun. And what has Conklin 
got to kick about? The Jammer was like him, but it was 
the Rock that came in for the sarcasm.” 

“But, Barry, can you not see?—he thinks the Rock ought 
to come to him.” 

“Rot!” Then: “Rose-Ann, you know better than to 
think I wrote the articles?” 

“Well, Barry, you see they might be your impressions of 
America!” Rose-Ann’s eyes twinkled. 

“They may voice many of my sentiments, Rose-Ann, but 
they are not mine.” 

A silence fell between Compton and Rose-Ann. Then: 


112 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“ Barry, I am writing those articles. I get twenty-five 
dollars apiece for them!” 

Compton turned slowly in his chair and eyed Rose-Ann for 
a full moment and then he leaned his head back and laughed 
until Rose-Ann begged him to stop. 

“Now that IVe begun,” she said, seeking to hold Comp¬ 
ton’s attention, “I must go on. The editor wants them. 
He says—oh! Barry, he says they are ripping. You see, he 
comes from New York. I dare not be known, Barry, for I 
have all my friends, yet, to make dance. Prue’s a scream. 
They’d never forgive me if they knew, Barry; but it is too 
late to stop. I thought they would be refused—I almost 
prayed that they would after I sent the first—but oh! the 
editor took them all.” 

Compton controlled himself finally and gave himself to 
the serious aspect of the thing. 

“You are head-on for trouble, Rose-Ann,” he said. “If 
you cannot draw lightning one way, you’ll put lightning rods 
on. These articles are not exactly ill-natured, my dear, but 
they are like lashes on exposed backs. You haven’t the 
right to lash, my dear, especially since you know so devil¬ 
ishly well the anatomy of your puppets. 

“Rose-Ann, swim out, while the swimming’s good, you 
little daredevil!” 

“ Barry, I’m not going to! Iam not hurting folks. If they 
are all right—and goodness knows they think they are—why 
shouldn’t I play with them?” 

“It isn’t the thing to do, Rose-Ann. You shock me.” 

“Well, the only thing that makes me tremble,” Rose-Ann 
swayed back and forth in her chair, “is that any one could 
think you would do them. It’s an overpowering compli¬ 
ment, Barry, but a facer!” 

“Evidence is against me, I admit,” Compton nodded with 
amusement. “My writing spells—good God! And my 
‘impressions’. They’ll have something in for me, one way or 
another, Rose-Ann, so let them have this. I do not approve 
of you, my dear child. You ought to be spanked. But I 
won’t tell on you.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


113 


“You mean, Barry, that you will keep my secret?” 

“Even so, you out-lander.” 

“Oh! Barry, you certainly are a friend.” Rose-Ann gave 
a sigh of relief. 

“Tm not doing you any good, Rose-Ann. But what I 
cannot comprehend is how can you do these things so well ? 
They are faulty, but they have the blood of life.” 

“I don’t know, Barry, that’s just it. I suppose when you 
get your back against the wall you’re apt to fly out with al¬ 
most anything. I hadn’t enough to do, and so I tried my 
hand at writing.” 

“Rose-Ann, look at me!” 

The girl turned her clear eyes to Compton. 

“What is it, Rose-Ann?” 

“Barry, I don’t know. I suppose the devil has his eye on 
my idle hands. I am not worthy of Billy. He’s the best 
thing on earth, but I cannot fit into the ideals he has and I 
want, awfully, his approval. I miss something and it is all 
my own fault.” 

“You give up a great deal, Rose-Ann, to Braintree’s-” 

Compton was going to say “whims,” but he said instead 
“wishes.” 

“Not half as much as he does to mine, Barry.” 

“For instance?” 

“Well,oh,in hundredsof ways thatdo not bear telling. I’m 
trying, Barry, very, and he never loses his temper—never! 

“He works hard, but always for me; he thinks of nothing 
but me.” 

“An awful waste of time and energy,” Compton laughed. 

“Of course.” Rose-Ann admitted seriously. Then: 

“Barry, why do not men—a lot of men—like Billy?” 

“Everyone respects him, Rose-Ann.” 

“I said, ‘like.’” 

“Well, he doesn’t hang around with men much; they seem 
to think he is a reflection upon them.” 

“I feel that way, too. Billy just naturally makes folks 
feel that way and yet, Barry, he doesn’t mean to—he never 
thinks of such a thing.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


114 

“I wonder!” thought Compton, but aloud he said: 

“Rose-Ann, you must chip that crystal about Braintree. 
You remember?” 

Rose-Ann thought, then nodded. 

“I had almost forgotten that, Barry.” 

“Smash it if you can, my girl; crack it, anyway, give him 
the chance to get out. At least give him air to breathe.” 

“This is very disloyal, Barry. I’m ashamed. If I could 
only get into some crystal myself all would be well. I’m 
so fearfully fluid.” 

“God forbid, Rose-Ann, that you should crystallize.” 

All that summer the crisp articles in the Criticism attracted 
attention. People writhed, but to writhe in public was to 
confess when confession was least advisable. 

New England traits were profanely handled and caused 
much laughter among the ribald. The articles were syndi¬ 
cated. Prominent people, absurdly caricatured, paraded in 
print their virtues and follies before a growing audience. 

Rose-Ann’s bank account grew mightily, but like a thief’s 
hoardings, she dared not show it. She opened a new account 
in Boston. Her bank books she had from the first kept to 
herself. She managed them perfectly. Her father had 
wanted to “balance” them for her, and Braintree, in pure 
kindliness, offered also to relieve her of the duty, but she 
refused them. 

“And oh! my Lord!” she confessed to Compton; “if they 
should see my balance swelling now!—where would my repu¬ 
tation be?” 

“Look about for investments, Rose-Ann.” 

“I don’t dare, Barry. I’m snarling myself all up. Help 
me out, there’s a dear. Find something for me to put my 
money in. My ill-gotten gains. I must tell Billy soon.” 

And Compton conceded to the investment plea. He did 
it so cleverly that all traces seemed hid, but he advised 
Rose-Ann to tell her husband. Her withholding worried 
him. 

And then came the outbreak in Essex over the complica- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


ii5 

tions produced by the Torch Light and the snarls produced 
by the Criticism articles which were attributed to Compton. 

There certainly was some ground for Conklin’s attitude of 
mind. To be advertised as jamming into Plymouth Rock 
was bad enough, but to realize that he was making no im¬ 
pression on the Rock added to his resentment. His tolera¬ 
tion toward the liberal Torch Light did not aid him at all. 
And besides, the mill hands were growing obstreperous. 

During the course of lectures, a man had come from New 
York, and in drawing attention to the laws of the land, he 
touched upon Child Labour and its evils. The lectures were 
neutral enough, Compton had made sure of that; the man 
was simply adding his quota to the subject of Americanism 
and he said that working little children was un-American 
and stupid. 

But Conklin, who had a discreetly obscure room in his 
mill to which he relegated suspiciously young workers when 
the State inspectors made nuisances of themselves, took this 
lecture as another personal insult. 

Added to this, Rose-Ann’s classes were contributing fuel 
to the fire. With better English at their command, the 
foreign-born girls read better books and certainly got new 
and more disturbing ideas. And then Compton himself 
took a prominent part in the Young Men’s Club. He held 
ideals before them that were sentimental bosh, mere bunkum, 
Conklin thought—until he focussed on the drink question. 

Always, hitherto, a retiring man and a poor speaker in 
public, Compton blossomed out at this juncture. He did 
not mince matters; he used the Mill Tavern as a blighting 
example; the fathers of the-young men as objects of warning. 

He stopped at nothing, apparently, and Conklin made sure 
of this by sending Brady to the meetings as a possible brand 
to be saved from the burning. Brady was to report. 

“Gosh, almighty!” Brady came to Conklin’s house full 
to the nozzle; “he’s handing out stuff to them kids as ain’t 
decent or proper. He’s telling them that a harmless drink— 
a night off—may end about everything for them. He tacks 
diseases onter drinks—damn him! Not D. T., mind you, 


n6 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Mr. Conklin, but the damnedest rotten kinds what makes 
invalids of women and the devil knows what-all of the kids. 

“He’s got some of the boys scared stiff, and the rest as 
guilty feeling as hell. That kind of talk ought to be 
muzzled.” 

“We’ll muzzle it!” Conklin said grimly. “What more, 
Brady?” 

“Oh! a lot of lingo along that line and then he shot ques¬ 
tions at them. Did they want to ruin women’s lives? Did 
they want a bunch of sickly kids? Did they want to be 
the best kind of American citizens, or just howlers?” 

Conklin looked serious. Half truths, he knew, were as 
dangerous as half lies. He never had his feet off the ground 
and he had no belief in wings as applied to human affairs. 

Things were as they were. Make the best of them. 
Human nature was human nature. You couldn’t change it 
but you might twist it or brace it up. 

Conklin was for the bracing-up method. He paid decent 
wages and saw to it that the Tavern was kept well within 
the law. Conklin had a great regard for the law—when it 
could be interpreted by him. 

Of course where poverty was—and didn’t the Lord Al¬ 
mighty say the poor ye have with you always?—it was 
better to let children work than starve. 

And that damnable rot about birth control! Did the 
wretches think they could interfere with the holy and divine 
laws of Nature ? 

“If you let things alone, Nature takes care of everything,” 
was Conklin’s complacent philosophy. His first step, then, 
was to forbid his daughters going to the Torch Light. 

“It gets you nowhere,” he urged, “and there’s a lot of 
smut there that has got to be cleared up. I don’t want my 
women mixed up with it. 

“After all, who knows anything about this Compton? 
He stayed out of his own country long enough to lose much 
of its idealism and gather the Lord knows what from other 
countries.” 

The Conklin girls sulkily gave up the clubs. Certainly 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


ii 7 

they were making very little progress socially, but Rose-Ann 
was a vivid interest in their lives. 

And then Conklin decided to do a big, magnanimous thing 
—he’d go up to Middle Essex and have a man-to-man talk 
with Compton. The Lord knew, he did not want trouble. 
Trouble was costly. 

It was a warm October evening that Conklin selected for 
his neighbourly call. 

As he passed the Trevall house, he nodded to Trevall as one 
gentleman bows to another—with a slight upward movement 
of his hand to the brim of his hat. 

Trevall was on the porch reading the Transcript —the 
warm weather had lured him out. 

Prudence sat near him sewing on a little garment that 
she held, ready to hide, should necessity demand, in a yawn¬ 
ing bag at her side. Albert and Prudence had decided that 
the time had come when they could safely begin a family and 
the “beginning” was decidedly on the way—a source of 
constant alarm and modest retreating on Prudence’s part, 
while Albert ignored the situation as any upright man was 
expected to do. 

“Is he going to stop, Father?” Prudence was trembling 
as Conklin’s car went slower. 

“No.” Trevall looked over his spectacles. 

“But why is he up in Middle Essex?” Prudence settled 
back, relieved. 

“I’m sure I do not know.” Trevall raised the paper and 
read on. 

Rose-Ann Braintree’s roadster met Conklin’s flashy car 
just before Compton’s place was reached. 

Conklin knew a handsome woman when he saw one and 
there were two things that he prided himself upon: he never 
struck a man when he was down, though he had been known 
to strike a man down; and he never failed to pay homage to 
beauty—feminine beauty. 

The Pierce-Arrow and the roadster halted beside each 
other. 

Rose-Ann was wearing a white skirt, artistically short, thus 


Ii8 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


leaving free for observation two dainty feet in white stock¬ 
ings and low shoes. A warm, eiderdown sweater of white 
came close up to her round chin; a little turban of dark red 
hid the bronze curls, and a red scarf fluttered loose in the 
warm, brisk breeze. 

“Well, Mrs. Braintree—a delight as always. Pardon an 
old man’s admiration, but you certainly command it.” 

“Thanks, Mr. Conklin. How are the girls?” 

“In great health, I’m glad to say. But a responsibility to 
a widowed father. It is hard to know-” 

“Oh! let them alone,” Rose-Ann broke in; “they can make 
their own way. Martha is a dear in the kindergarten, and 
Joan is a dabster in the millinery class. The hats the workers 
wear now are inspirations. Hats often decide a girl’s career.” 
Rose-Ann showed her pretty teeth and dimples. 

“They have tired of the classes.” Conklin seized the first 
pause. “That is the fault with the girls—no stability of 
character.” 

“I’ll get after them, Mr. Conklin. You weren’t going up 
to our house, were you ?” 

“No, no, my dear Mrs. Braintree, though I will give 
myself that pleasure soon. I was going to call on Mr. 
Compton—Club matter, you know.” 

Rose-Ann shook her head. 

“No use I fear, to-night, Mr. Conklin. Genius is burning. 
I’ve just been there. No one can get past Cleaver.” 

“Eh?” Conklin’s hard face looked puzzled. 

“Genius—his book—impressions of America, you know. 
Mr. Compton is working in his tower room. No one ever 
disturbs his writing hours.” 

“Oh! I understand. I’ve seen some of his impressions, 
Mrs. Braintree. Bad form, I say, for an American to make 
shows of his neighbours for the amusement of outsiders.” 

Rose-Ann flushed. 

“What makes you think Mr. Compton does those articles?” 
She touched her horn and it emitted a spasmodic yelp as 
if she had tickled it. 

“Who else could, my dear Mrs. Braintree?” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


119 

“There are others, Mr. Conklin. However, when genius 
is burning in that high tower room—I doubt if anything 
could lure Mr. Compton from his task. I couldn’t! I 
implored Cleaver to let me pass. I offered to bribe him. 
Nothing doing! 

“But good luck to you! I’m going to meet my husband.” 

Rose-Ann waved a white-gloved hand, the red scarf floated 
behind her; the horn tooted a salute to the Trevalls, and 
Conklin went on to Compton’s. 

The big orderly house was quiet and dim. There were 
lights in kitchen, hall, and in a room high up near the roof. 

To Conklin’s ring, Cleaver appeared. 

“Sorry, sir,” he explained, “but Mr. Compton is engaged.” 

“I think he will see me, if you give him my name.” Conk¬ 
lin had an inborn objection to Englishmen. He took his 
stand against Cleaver. 

“You may come in, sir. I’ll give your name, sir. Perhaps 
Mr. Compton will make an appointment.” Anything to 
gain time. Cleaver was eager to be at his post upstairs. 

Conklin passed out a card and followed Cleaver into the 
beautiful old room—the library. 

Sitting alone among the books and the rare prints, Conklin 
got that impression that he often experienced, a kind of im- 
potency. “There is something, damn it!” he thought, “that 
you couldn’t buy.” Even if he made this room, this house, 
his, that something would elude him and escape the bargain. 

How still the place was; how peaceful. Servants were 
moving about; one came presently and turned on the shaded 
light, saying, “Excuse me, sir,” as she did so. 

And then through the stillness a voice broke cruelly sharp 
and strained. It cut like a knife and made Conklin wince 
and huddle in his chair. It was the voice of a mad man. 

“Stand aside, Cleaver! Take your hands off me, damn 
you!” 

There was a scuffling in the upper hall, a muffled—“Sir, 
I—implore you. Sir!” 

And then a muttered curse—and steps coming down the 
broad stairs and straight toward the library. 


CHAPTER X 



ONKLIN was conscious of actual, personal fear. The 


approaching steps were unsteady, and out of keeping 


in the beautiful stateliness of the quiet house. 
Nearer, nearer they came, a groping hand now and then 
touching the side walls of the broad hall—first one side, then 
the other. It was uncanny, hair-raising. 

The groper was at the door of the room now, and the 
bright, rosy light fell upon him. For a full moment Conklin 
did not know the man on the threshold. His face was drawn 
and white, his hair in disorder. He was unshaven; his feet 
were bare and thrust into loose slippers. A rumpled bath¬ 
robe hung carelessly over his pyjamas. 

“Good God!” Conklin exclaimed. He knew the signs of 
a man slowly recovering from the depths of bestial drunken¬ 
ness. Nothing else on earth compared with it for repulsive¬ 
ness. 

“My God! Compton.” 

Compton stood and stared. Slowly and with horror he was 
sensing the situation. He was coming into his own. 

As if he were drawing up a mantle to cover his shame, 
Compton’s better self asserted its control. He gave a 
miserable laugh; straightened his shoulders and came into 
the room and seated himself. 

Even in his shame Conklin’s horrified eyes and his heavy, 
hanging jaw struck Compton as curiously comical. 

“Excuse my appearance,” he said with an attempt at a 
smile that had the effect of angering Conklin; “you see 
when I heard that you had honoured me by a call, I was so 
eager to welcome you that I did not stop to make a toilet.” 

Conklin’s big face flamed. How dared this hypocrite 
take such an attitude? He drew himself up. He had all the 


120 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


121 


cards in his hands! That was his next thought. It gave 
him a thrill of relief; it guided him out of his stupefaction; it 
gave a kind of heavy dignity to his big red face. 

“I came,” he gasped a little before he spoke; “I came, 
Compton”—the “Mr,” was dropped unconsciously—“I 
came to talk business with you—man to man.” 

“Em sorry to have upset your plans, Conklin, but now 
that you are here—perhaps you had better make the most of 
it; man to man, I mean.” 

There was a gleam in Compton’s eyes. His brain was 
clearing. Before him he saw ruin of all that he prized; all 
that he had fought to keep. At the moment when Cleaver 
was most needed he had been off guard, to Compton’s 
undoing. He was at Conklin’s mercy now, absolutely; 
utterly. And there could be no mercy, he knew, but there 
might be arbitration. 

“I am shocked beyond words!” again Conklin spoke with 
that indrawing gasp. 

“And no wonder, Conklin. Most men would be.” 
Compton pulled his bathrobe together and hid his feet under 
the enveloping folds. “I suppose we might as well play our 
hands, Conklin.” 

“I’ve won the game, Compton! I’ll make my own terms, 
thank you. I came, as I said, to talk man to man; I’ve 
never been so shocked and amazed in my life, but—I hold 
all the cards.” 

There was a brutal flash in the gray eyes of Conklin; a 
fierce set of the jaw. 

“You do not hold all the cards,Conklin”;and now Compton 
in all his disarrangement took on a pitiful air of refinement 
which subtly combated Conklin’s crude attitude. “I 
still have a trick or two, I think.” 

Conklin leaned forward and clasped his big, hairy hands 
on the table. As far as linen and wool could make him, he 
was immaculate. Beside Compton’s ill-kept appearance 
he had the advantage and yet—Compton did have a trick or 
two; Conklin felt the truth of this and it stung him to 
brutality. 


122 THE TENTH WOMAN 

“You’re drunk!” he whispered, and fixed his hard eye 
upon his victim. 

“I have been, Conklin, for nearly a week; I’ve been coming 
out of it for three days; in another week I’ll be quite myself.” 

There was no bravado in the words, but Conklin was not 
fine enough to perceive that. 

“Yourself!” he almost groaned—“yourself. And I sup¬ 
pose if I—if another hadn’t discovered you, you would have 
come down to that damn club of yours and paraded again 
your superior virtues?” 

The absurdity of this and his own wit caused Conklin to 
give a guffaw; then he affrightedly controlled himself, for 
Compton was looking at him quietly; simply waiting for 
him to cease. 

“I would have done something like that, Conklin,” he 
said wearily, sadly. “I never considered that I had superior 
virtues, but I know what superior virtues are.” 

This was too cryptic for Conklin. 

“See here, Compton,” he said suddenly, natural curiosity 
overpowering him; “is this sort of thing a habit of yours?” 

“No, Conklin, I never had the chance of making it that— 
it is an inheritance.” 

“Blaming others, eh? That’s a damned small thing for 
you to do, Compton, and it doesn’t go with me.” 

“I did not expect it would, Conklin. You have, I see, 
adopted the New England attitude of mind.” 

For some reason this stung Conklin and he flared forth: 

“The stern morality of the New England people,” he said 
rather huskily, “should not be flouted—it’s what this nation 
needs. Backbone; the decency to take one’s medicine and 
not slink behind others and expect-” He paused. 

“Anything,” Compton put in. 

“No, sir!” Conklin meant to have his way. “Expect 
folks who have battled for, and achieved, decency to over¬ 
look his lapses on account of money or what he terms his 
damned blood.” 

Compton’s deep, sad eyes did not move from Conklin’s 
face; he seemed fascinated. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


123 

“Our country has a firm upholder in you, Conklin,” he 
said at last. ‘‘I suppose it is to such as you that we must 
look for our bones and sinews. Well, there is a good deal 
in what you’ve said. 

“I am fully aware, Conklin, that my appearance is against 
me, but just for the test of an idea, may I speak to you as a— 
man to a—gentleman?” 

Conklin leaned back in his chair and stuffed his hands in 
his pockets. 

“I’m listening,” he said. 

‘‘Have you ever, Conklin, fought a hard fight against 
anything evil in you ? Anything, perhaps, that you may have 
inherited? May have, I repeat.” 

Compton’s voice was curiously inquiring. 

“Compton, I inherited from my people the necessity to 
work for my daily bread; I had to dig my way out—no 
one did it for me. Once out—I had to pull myself up or 
get under the feet of the herd—the blooded herd!” 
Conklin flung this out bitterly. “But I’m out and up, by 
God! and I’m beginning at last to see what blood counts 
for!” 

“And, except for this, this scramble you’ve never known— 
temptation stronger than yourself?” Compton’s tone was 
still curious. 

Conklin flushed a purple hue, but being an honest man, he 
said after a pause: 

“I’ve had my fling—I see what you mean. I’ve lived 
the life of a red-blooded man—if not”—Conklin had a bit 
of wit—“if not that of a blue-blooded one. But, by God I 
never posed for anything I wasn’t. When I set the pace, I 
kept step with my kind. When I saw my folly I dropped all 
that. It was then, and then only, that I felt fit to do any 
preaching. I never aspired”—Conklin caught his breath, 
“to be a plaster saint while-” 

“That’s enough, Conklin, I see your point.” Compton 
waved a white, trembling hand. 

“Now let me ask you something else. Have you imagina¬ 
tion enough to put yourself in the place of a man who, not 


124 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


having inherited the necessity to pull himself from under and 
climb, fought, inch by inch, a losing game? 

“Can you fancy what it must be to have only enough 
strength to fight to the losing point and yet get up and fight 
again because the gleam was never utterly killed ?” 

“I ain’t much on the fancying line, Compton. I keep my 
feet on the ground. A man that is a man can get the best 
of the devil in him if he wants to and means business.” 

“That’s not always so, Conklin.” 

The patient suffering in Compton’s tones did not reach 
Conklin. He was restive; wanted to end this disgusting 
scene, but Compton spoke on. 

“I acknowledge, Conklin, that I’ve fallen into your power. 
I haven’t the slightest doubt but what you will use it.” 

“If you mean that I’ll give people an opportunity of know¬ 
ing what kind of a man it is who is the shepherd of that there 
Torch Light flock—you’re about right.” 

“Exactly, Conklin, exactly. I would not have put it quite 
that way myself, but I see that you have caught my meaning. 
Certainly, the Torch Light must be enlightened—after this. 
But, let me, just for argument, ask you if there is not more 
than one way to enlighten them?” 

“I don’t follow you, Compton.” 

“Well, I’ll try to make myself clearer. To prove how 
truly I recognize my position, Conklin, I’m going to speak 
more plainly to you than I have ever spoken to any other 
creature in the world. 

“My father”— Compton’s lips grew dry and stern— 
“drank himself to death. My mother took him abroad to 
hide the shame and her misery. I was conceived in fear and 
horror. My mother believed, before God! that she was 
doing her duty by my father. She did, to my father, Conk¬ 
lin—but she did not think of my part in the scheme until 
later. She stood by my father—stood by him! Good God! 
Conklin, I’ve seen her stand by him until in his crazy mo¬ 
ments—he struck her down. At ten years of age, I protected 
my mother from my father. We travelled from place to 
place abroad. When my father had periods of sanity, re- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


125 


morse and despair drove him. It was in a remote corner of 
England that my father saved my man Cleaver’s life—we 
need not go into that—but it made Cleaver our staunch 
friend for ever and he has never deserted me. 

“My father killed himself when I was twenty-two. My 
wreck of a mother, Cleaver, and I travelled then and tried to 
forget. I was constantly aware through my boyhood that 
my mother feared for me—feared what was always a grim 
spectre but never mentioned. It haunted me, too. Cleaver 
watched me; I was surrounded with fear, and that aggravated 
a physical ailment that developed rapidly—epilepsy. And 
then, like a full, unmanageable tide the inheritance rose. 
That thing that was in me, Conklin, wasn’t just a craving for 
drink—it was a devilishly disguised determination to deaden 
the horror of the attacks. When I felt the fits approaching, 
I turned to drink. I became a prey to my inheritance in my 
weak moments. 

“I”— Compton looked helplessly at the staring man 
across the table—“I opened the flood gates, Conklin, but 
you see, I had not the strength to close them! You—your 
kind could, but before God! I could not. 

“Only this strength was left me—I could always face the 
terrible truth and I made my losing fights. I fought and 
fought. I fought for my mother—the look in her eyes when 
the time came that she bowed before me—me!—and begged 
forgiveness because she had given me life. 

“I fought later for a woman that I loved—she wanted to 
take the chance—I had enough strength to deny her; deny 
the mad longing in my soul. 

“My mother died.” Compton paused; a mad light 
flamed in his eyes and he gave an ugly laugh. 

“No, I’m not going to ask for drink, Conklin,” he said. 
“I’m safe for a time. 

“Well, Cleaver stuck to me. He hides me, lies for me, 
fights with me; for me. We came back to America; came 
home. I suppose it was the blood in my veins that drove me 
hungrily to my people. I wanted to be part of them, to be 
with them. 


126 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“I thought it might be possible to help them, as I saw they 
needed it. Out of the depths of my weakness and repeated 
defeat I clung to the hopes of still helping. 

“You, Conklin, you who had power to help people—what 
have you done for them?” 

Somewhere, off in another part of the house, a clock 
ticked slowly, calmly, as if, after all, nothing mattered. The 
blue-blooded man in his pitiful disorder and defeat sat 
patiently staring at the red-blooded man whose victory 
rested uneasily upon him. 

Neither spoke until Conklin, with a groan, hitched his 
chair nearer to the dividing table. His big, deep-lined face 
was haggard; his thick lips trembling. 

“My God, Compton,” he muttered, “you’ve given me a 
glimpse of—helll” 

“My abiding place!” A pitiful sneer shook the words. 

“As long as I could help, not harm,” he went on, “I felt 

that I might work among you all. But—now-” Compton 

got up and walked about the room. 

In the next five minutes, Conklin, in his chair, fought the 
most exhausting battle of his life. A battle that threatened 
to lay low all that he had gripped and gained while he had 
been pulling himself from under—and up. 

To place himself beside the sad, beaten man pacing the 
room meant to retreat before his people, from a conclusion 
he had lustily proclaimed. It meant giving power that 
might undermine his relations with his mill hands—or it 
might make it necessary for him to assume relations with 
them that he had fought through many a strike. And yet, 
above all else, when all other aspects had been considered, 
here was a man; yes, by God—a man, face to face with a 
brother man! 

What had his boasted victory done for him if he could 
fling this fellow creature to—what? 

Again, Conklin, who knew his kind, and indeed other 
kinds, clenched his hands, his big brawny hands, and the 
sweat came on his forehead. He turned back to Compton 
and fixed his eyes upon him fiercely. Compton smiled his 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


127 

wan, unbeaten smile, and returned to his chair—awaiting the 
verdict. 

“Well?” he asked. 

Everything was at stake between them. 

“Compton, I’m going to keep my hands off! Keep my 
mouth shut.” 

The slow-ticking clock struck into the silence that followed. 
Nine sharp, alarmed strokes. The old, old clock appeared 
to realize that something did matter. 

“There’s some right in what you’re giving them fellows 
down in Essex. Men like me know that, even while we 
fight it—like hell. I may go fighting it. Business is not— 
Sunday-school picnics; but I’ll fight it fair; not by tram¬ 
pling on a man who is crawling along out of hell! When 
we clash—it will not be—because ” 

Compton tried to stand up, but sank back weakly. 

“Thank you, Conklin,” he muttered huskily. “I begin 
to see what my country and yours has to be thankful for.” 

“And look here,” Conklin added. He came around to 
Compton with his chair and planted it firmly beside his 
neighbour’s; he had lost sight of any barrier that had existed 
between them. Laying his big brawny hand on the thin 
white one, he spoke with confidence, authority. “Look 
here, Compton, this talk you’ve talked is the damnedest rot, 
though you haven’t caught on to that yet. You’ve come 
back to this old country of yours to learn a big truth—and 
by the Lord! I’m going to tell it to you. 

“If you couldn’t conquer the devil in you, you’d have 
given up long ago. The power to fight is the power to win, 
man. Get that inter yer system. 

“Inch by inch as you’ve sweated through hell, you’ve 
come up; up! Can’t you see it for yourself? 

“This here desire to keep others from your—hell—why, 
Compton, with all the bunk, it’s the biggest, the damnedest 
big thing I’ve ever had hit me in the face. I can’t go all the 
way with you, I’ll have to make yer back down if I can 
sometimes; but as God hears me, Compton, I m going to 
keep as near you as I can—to your winning point. 



128 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“Don’t let an idea throttle you, man. Your father paid 
his debt—you needn’t do more than pay your own. 

“Brace up, Compton, ideas ain’t real stuff—always. 
God and devil handles them. I ain’t what you call religious, 
but—I know that.” 

Compton, sitting in his chair, felt something surging 
through him. It was not strength—he was as weak as a 
child; he felt smarting tears in his eyes. A light seemed to 
be enveloping him, a light that showed him stretches of arid 
waste—but it showed him Conklin as well! He did not seem 
to see the rough, coarse exterior of the man; he saw what the 
man meant. It was Power in the making; not in the com¬ 
pleted whole. Conklin was still striving for better things 
than power. 

And now, springing up, Conklin stood in the doorway and 
called loudly into the silent, orderly dimness as a master 
might, 

“Cleaver; where in hell are you? Come here!” 

“Yes, sir, yes, sir!” Cleaver came hurrying down the hall. 

“Here,” Conklin commanded, “get Mr. Compton up¬ 
stairs. I’ll help you. So! Can’t you see—he’s all in?” 

As if Cleaver could not! 

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” he faltered, bending over Compton 
as he might have over a child. 

“There now. This way. Don’t use up your strength, 
Compton.” Conklin took command: “Lean heavy. That’s 
what we’re here for, Cleaver and I!” 

Through the hall, up the wide stairs, past the old clock 
that surely had never beheld such a sight before, then into the 
fine old bedchamber. 

“Cleaver”—Conklin, red and panting, released his hold 
of the thin form that sank helplessly on the bed—“when 
your master—when Mr. Compton has these—here—spells, 
I want you to call me up—hear me?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“No monkeying and slouching, see? You and I, Cleaver, 
are going to tackle this job together.” 

Again the humorous twinkle came in Conklin’s eyes. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


129 

“When it comes to the touchdown, Cleaver, we Americans 
and English understand each other.” 

“Yes, sir, yes, sir.” 

Cleaver’s voice shook. After all the years the relief of 
having someone to share his responsibility filled him with 
trembling gratitude. 

“And now—good-night!” Conklin turned from the room 
and went out of the house. 

He got in his big car and started down the drive to the 
broad highway lying well-kept and smooth under the light 
of a new and cloudless moon. 

“I’m letting myself in for a damned lot of rot,” he mused. 
“I ain’t going to stand too much of that bunk, by the Lord 
Harry, but-” 

Conklin was passing just thentheTrevall house—the piazza 
was empty—Trevall and Prudence had gone inside; “I ain’t 
going to fling him down to—them!” 

He meant Trevall and his daughter and all that they typ¬ 
ified. Suddenly Conklin felt a kinship with Compton that 
gave him a thrill. 

He, the jammer of Plymouth Rock, had made a niche into 
which he might put his foot when least he had expected it. 
He felt that he was going to climb—but not as he had once 
dreamed of climbing. In that moment he knew no social 
or personal ambitions; but he understood Compton as per¬ 
haps no one in all the world ever had. He had something to 
give Compton; something that Compton’s own kind had not 
in their power to give. That is what it all meant. The old 
and the new needed each other. 

And just then Rose-Ann’s little car came tooting along the 
highway; Braintree was beside his wife. He looked tall and 
handsome in the moonlight, rigid and austere. The big 
car and the small car stopped—on the highway. 

“Oh! it’s you, Mr. Conklin?” 

Rose-Ann leaned across her wheel. 

“Well, did you get in?” she asked mischievously. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Really, Mr. Conklin?” 



130 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“Yes, ma’am. When he heard I was there he came down 
—at once! He is keen about getting new impressions of 
America—he got ’em!” 

Conklin and Rose-Ann both laughed. Braintree made a 
feeble attempt to join in. 

“I—I hardly believe you, Mr. Conklin. To refuse me— 
and then see you-” Rose-Ann tossed her head. 

“My dear young lady”—Conklin put his foot on his 
starter—“you have several things to learn yet in life,” he 
said. 

“I’m sure of that,” Rose-Ann laughed gaily. “That’s 
why I’m so keen about it all. And you have some things to 
learn, too, Mr. Conklin. I’ve seen Martha. She says you 
misunderstood about her—stability of character.” 

The two cars parted on the highway. A merry “good¬ 
night” floated into space. Then: 

“My darling!” Braintree spoke. 

“Yes, Billy.” 

“I wish, my dear, that you would not be so—well, so free 
with men. I realize how sweet and innocent you are, but 
men never understand. You must take my advice, sweet¬ 
heart.” 

No answer came to this, but the car gathered headway. 

“Did you hear me, Rose-Ann?” 

“Yes, Billy. You’d better hold your hat on!” 

“You are breaking the traffic regulations, my dear girl!” 

Braintree was holding his hat on. 

“I’m going to break every regulation if you talk like that, 
Billy Boy.” 

“Aman like Conklin-” Braintree tried to speak quietly, 

but the flying dust got into his mouth and Rose-Ann spoke 
into the pause: 

“A man who can get past Cleaver when a woman like me 
fails to”—Rose-Ann disdained the dust—“has my admira¬ 
tion, Billy.” 

“Rose-Ann, this pace is dangerous. Go slower.” 

“All right, Billy, as far as the car is concerned I’ll meet 
your views, but please don’t talk any such talk as you’ve just 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


131 

been talking, to me again. I mean it, Billy, I’m not joking.” 
She stopped suddenly both car and speech and looked at her 
husband. “I wonder,” she faltered, “if you realize that 
you are trying to do what you once said you thought was a 
crime ?” 

“What do you mean?” Braintree flamed. 

“Control another’s thought and action.” 

“But, my dear, there are certain accepted standards-” 

“Good only for them who accept them! We’ve been 
over that ground, Billy.” Rose-Ann spoke loftily. 

“Be reasonable, Rose-Ann. I suppose you do grant that 
truth, honesty, morality-” 

Rose-Ann made no reply, but she started the car. 

“You see, beloved, when you pause and think, you agree 
with me.” 

No answer. 

“You are not going to sulk, my precious little fool—are 
you?” 

Braintree put his arm around the rigid form beside him. 

“No, Billy.” 

“Then turn your dear head and kiss me—there’s a straight 
stretch of road before us.” 

But Rose-Ann kept her eyes on the straight stretch. 
There were shadows lying across it; shadows cast by tall 
elms that for centuries had stood beside the highway over 
which young and old passed with their problems. 

“My dear little girl, you know I am thinking—working 
only for you. My life is devoted to you and your happiness.” 

“Thanks, Billy, but- Well; I wish you wouldn’t con¬ 

centrate so on me.” 

“On whom else, then, my own?” 

“Yourself, Billy. You need a little attention.” 

“Very well, Rose-Ann. If it has come to criticizing your 
husband, I am sorry-” 

Rose-Ann turned suddenly toward him, but not to kiss 
him—she laughed. 

It was such a laugh as no man listens to complacently. 






CHAPTER XI 



k HE winter was a full and busy one for Essex, and 
Middle Essex had its share of excitement. 


Prudence Townsend’s baby was born early in 
January. The little incoming life nearly swept the mother 
from what had seemed the safest of moorings. 

Prudence, always practical, always the mistress of any 
situation, came so close to the Great Divide that during the 
days in which her fate hung in the balance it was given her to 
look backward and forward. White and weak she lay upon 
her bed, conscious; awe-filled and piteous. Townsend felt 
strange and awkward in her presence; he did not know how 
to approach this pale, austere woman with the light of 
heaven, instead of earth, shining in her eyes. 

There were hours when nothing mattered to Prudence— 
she stood on the edge of things and all that lay behind—even 
the child that had cost her so much seemed to have no hold 
upon her; but the tremendous sense of her own weakness, the 
gulf that lay at her feet—they were the vital facts. She was 
not afraid—one isn’t when he has gone so far—but she was so 
helplessly tired—she, strong, calm Prudence! She was at 
last one of the sisterhood; no longer the superior woman who 
could look askance at less favoured ones. 

Into the dim, still room Albert Townsend tiptoed and 
knelt beside his wife. His lips were thin and bluish; his 
eyes grave and deep. 

Prudence tried to speak to him, to cheer him. She felt as a 
good friend might who yearned to comfort one who had lost 
his dearest and best, but no words came to her trembling lips. 
Prudence looked upon the man beside her, not as she should 
have looked upon a husband, the father of her child, but as 
a person fraught with gravest danger to all that she had 


132 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


i 33 

supposed secure. Through him had come the shattering of 
all that she had believed herself to be. 

The things that she had striven to achieve through all her 
life were as nothing now. She could not think of herself as a 
Townsend. Through her relations with—she looked fixedly 
at Townsend—her relations with this wide-eyed man kneel¬ 
ing at her side, she had been brought near to her death. 
And then one day she spoke and, although Townsend, 
superficially, agreed with her, something in the depths of his 
being heard a knell—not a death knell, but a long life knell. 

“Albert, if I live”—and no one thought she would at 
that time— “there are to be no other children. I will never 
run into this danger again.” 

“No, my dear. Good God! no.” 

Prudence looked at him with stern, unconvinced-eyes. 

“Some men say that—and forget, Albert; but I mean what 
I say and you must decide for yourself. I would rather 
never set eyes on your face again than to suffer what I have 
suffered. It—it doesn’t pay. I’ve wished since—since the 
baby came—that I had never married. Albert, I will never 
live again with you—as your wife!” 

There was something awful in the weak, hoarse tones. 

Townsend was alarmed. He feared that she was prophe¬ 
sying her death—not her life. 

Having thus issued her ultimatum, Prudence slept, and 
gained a stronger foothold on the perilous edge. 

Her father came to her later. Townsend had repeated 
the foregoing conversation to him. 

Gravely Trevall drew a chair to the bedside and took the 
limp, clammy hand of his elder daughter in his. Prudence 
had always met with his approval heretofore; had so exactly 
footed up the correct total that now this thing that Town¬ 
send had confided troubled him deeply. 

“My child,” he said, “had Rose-Ann uttered such a 
sentiment I would not have been surprised—but you, my 
dear girl!” 

Prudence opened her eyes and stared at her father. He, 
too, was a stranger; an enemy. All men were. 


134 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“Of course, my dear,” Trevall patted the thin hand as he 
was wont to tap the chair arm, “you have suffered a great 
deal; that is woman’s share in the scheme of the Almighty, 
but when you have seen and loved your daughter-” 

“Is it a daughter?” Prudence asked indifferently. She 
had been told this many times, but somehow the fact did not 
remain in her weakened mind. 

“Yes, Prudence. A fine and beautiful child. When you 
are quite yourself, my dear Prudence, you will be proud of 
every pang, every sacrifice—and you will accept as never be¬ 
fore the duties you owe as a wife and mother.” 

Trevall paused. Prudence’s face twitched and quivered; he 
thought she was going to cry—sick, weak women always cried. 
Trevall recalled how his wife had always wept passionately 
after each child was born. But Prudence did not weep. 

“Father,” she gasped brokenly, “I never knew before 
how—how—funny you could be without trying.” 

And then Prudence laughed. Laughed regardless of the 
insecure grip she held on life; laughed defiantly; laughed as 
the free laugh who flout danger. 

Nurse and doctor were hurriedly called and “all males 
except the doctor,” as the stern nurse proclaimed, were 
barred from the room, which again became a battlefield. 

Unknowing and detached, Prudence slipped over the 
brink—but still clung weakly to the dividing line. What she 
saw, who was ever to know? She muttered almost con¬ 
stantly of strange and wonderful things—strange to Prudence 
Trevall who had always been so practical. 

“ Flowers!” she whispered, “ flowers!” As if no flowers had 
ever grown wildly beautiful at her feet—“and—and music— 
listen!” 

They were all listening—but only Prudence heard the 
calling, luring tones. 

“It is wonderful here, wonderful!” she confided; and then, 
after many days of listening to music and seeing flowers, she 
opened her tired eyes and saw Rose-Ann sitting by the 
western window rocking gently with something small and 
soft in her arms. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 135 

It all seemed so natural, just as if nothing tremendous had 
happened. Rose-Ann’s ruddy hair was turned to a crown of 
gold by the setting sun. Her bent face was beautiful be¬ 
yond words Prudence had never before acknowledged her 
sister’s beauty—but it flooded her now with a sense of safety 
and of promise. She was glad to have her sister close to her. 

Rose-Ann was holding to her lips a rose-leaf—no, it was a 
baby’s hand. She kissed it gently and then sang something 
that sounded like a prayer set to the lilting measures of a bird 
tune. 

Was this heaven, a woman’s heaven? Had Rose-Ann 
died, too? 

And then Rose-Ann, still transfigured by the golden glow, 
turned. 

“Are you awake, Prue?” she asked as simply as if they had 
not all barely escaped the grave. 

“Yes.” It was a mere whisper. 

“Do you want to see this blessed baby, Prue?” 

“No.” 

“All right—I’ll keep her for myself. She’s a precious, 
Prue. She looks like Mother!” 

At that something stirred in Prudence’s heavy heart; a 
great hungry longing. Her mother! Her mother would have 
understood! Never before had Prudence felt this truth. 
A sob sounded in the dull silence and Rose-Ann came hur¬ 
riedly to the bedside, the baby on her breast. She looked like 
a girlish madonna; the eternal mother. 

“Prue, darling,” she whispered, “stop, dear. They will 
all come in and make a scene and shut you away from us all 
again. See, dear old thing, baby and I will sit close to you— 
feel this blessed little hand, Prue, isn’t it wonderful ?” 

The sob ceased, the velvet touch was on the mother’s 
trembling lips. 

“Prue, listen to me. They told me what you said—about 
such things as this—this precious—and I do not blame you a 
bit! If you don’t want to go through hell who has a right to 
make you? But if I were you, dear, I’d make the most of 
what I’d clutched as I passed through! 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


136 

“Look at this darling—she came out with you. Prue, 
I’d just buck up and enjoy her.” 

A sweetness was entering in; a saneness. A shaft of light 
fell across Prudence’s bed and she weakly thought that that 
was what brought the warmth and comfort; but oh! that 
delicate touch upon her face—the groping, divine touch. 
Slow tears rolled down her wan cheeks. 

Then Rose-Ann spoke again. 

“The blessed baby doesn’t resent your attitude at all, Prue, 
she’s going to understand you and stand by you always. 
She’s taken to the bottle as though from preference and she 
nestles already—want to try her?” 

“Yes.” And when the tiny, warm body lay against 
Prudence’s heart all the hardness, all the firmness, seemed to 
melt. She felt faint—yet triumphant. 

“We’ll have such gorgeous times together, Prue. You, 
the baby, and I. What shall we call her? Let’s name her 
here with all the bright sunlight falling upon her like—like a 
benediction.” 

“We had thought-” Prudence faltered. 

“Never mind,” Rose-Ann broke in, “what we thought. 
What do you want, Prue—just you?” 

There was a pause; a faint sob that came shaken by 
joy. 

“I’d like to—to call her Faith. Faith Adams!” 

“Oh! I’m so glad, Prue, dear, so glad!” And then Rose- 
Ann knelt close and threw a young, protecting arm around 
Prue and her sleeping child. 

“Rose-Ann”—after a longer, a more thrilling pause—“I 
suppose it was fancy—one is so mad at such a time—but 
while I was struggling, I think they had given me a bit of 
chloroform—someone came into the room. I could not see, 
I—I felt her. I—and do not laugh at me, Rose-Ann, but I 
thought it might be—Mother. I thought I heard her cry 
and say comforting things. I cannot remember what it 
was she said. It troubles me, Rose-Ann, for lately I have 
heard that voice somewhere and they will not let it in! If it 
wasn’t Mother’s spirit, who was it?” 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


137 


Rose-Ann tightened her hold. 

“ Prue, it was Patsy—my Patsy. 1 never knew anything 
so strange, so beautiful; but when she heard about you, and 
what a hard time you were having, she simply walked out of 
my house and came here. Once she got past Albert and the 
nurse and came into this room. They were all too busy to 
notice her. When she came home, her face had a new look 
on it. I shall never forget it—and, Prue, she wants to come 
and take care of Faith.” 

Wonder of wonders! Prudence did not flinch. 

“Prue, I wish you’d let her. Her babies were taken from 
her, she told me,” Rose-Ann caught her breath. “She told 
me that often she stands in front of the Catholic Foundling 
Home and wonders where her babies are! And, Prue, when 
she sees a baby’s funeral, she gets faint and weak! That is 
what she told me. 

“Prue, it would be the saving of Patsy to let her come, 
and she’d give her best to Faith.” 

All this talk, ought, according to the nurse who was coming 
heavily up the stairs, to be the most dangerous thing for 
Prudence Townsend, but strange to say she was gaining 
strength with every moment. She was not a dead woman, 
but a live, a vital one with grave questions to answer, big 
affairs to settle. Never before in Prudence Townsend’s 
life had she seemed so necessary, so determined to take a 
stand. 

A stand against what? That was the puzzling thing—but 
she must take a stand. She was drawing strength from the 
warm mite on her breast—there seemed to be an inexhausti¬ 
ble supply of strength in that small burden. 

“Can—can you spare Patsy?” The faint whisper came 
slow. Prudence dared not reject anything that offered hope 
for her child. 

“I think I’ve trained her for you, Prue.” Rose-Ann 
laughed. Then: “I’ll take another mill girl. I’m very 
popular with them.” 

“I think it will be safe, Rose-Ann; I can watch Patsy and 
she may be, as you say, saved.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


138 

The door opened and the starched and immaculate nurse 
stood transfixed on the threshold. 

“Mrs. Braintree,” she said in alarm, “I am afraid you 
have done a dangerous thing—and the baby! What will the 

doctor say? I left the room to make some broth-” She 

was bustling about and then she came to the bed and, with 
watch in hand, counted Prudence’s pulse. She looked 
disappointed when she found it steadier, stronger. This was 
not regular with that temperamental Mrs. Braintree standing 
coolly by. 

“I’ll take the baby away now, Mrs. Townsend. You must 
rest!” 

“I want my baby! I will rest better with her here!” 
A new, commanding note sounded in Prudence’s voice; 
“and I want Rose-Ann. I am going to get well, I think, 
but”—and here Prudence drew Rose-Ann close to her with a 
look—“but I am never going through this again,” she 
whispered fiercely. 

“All right!” Rose-Ann whispered back. “I wouldn’t if 
I didn’t want to.” 

It was strange how Rose-Ann removed obstacles. One 
did not have to fight anything with her; it was like flaying 
the air when one most expected opposition. 

And so Prudence struggled up the incline down which 
she had slipped, came to the top, and turned her grave eyes to 
that which she so nearly had foregone. 

Patsy came, in apron and cap, and hungrily assumed the 
care of little Faith. 

Trevall and Townsend disapproved of this, of course. 
Trevall had a talk with Prudence, and Albert made his re¬ 
sponses at the proper time, but Prudence set her lips and 
remarked at the close of the conference that she did not agree 
with them. It was a good thing all around. So Patsy 
remained. With the pretty baby cuddled in her arms, poor 
Patsy did not seem the sinner and outcast that one might 
suspect from Trevall’s description. She looked very young 
and inoffensive and a radiancy grew upon her dimpled face. 

“It sure seems,” she confided to Prudence one day, “that 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


139 


the child was giving me the chance, ma’am. When I hold 
her and feed her, sure it seems as if I was doing it for me own.” 

And then tears came in the girl’s eyes; tears that she 
quickly brushed away. 

‘‘It’s not tears ye’ll be seem’, little Faith,” she faltered; 
“but just smiles, me pretty—and that will get yer to ex¬ 
pectin’ sunshine.” 

Prudence was never to have another child! The matter 
was not referred to—but it became an understood thing, an 
accepted fact. She developed slowly into the bleak, sexless 
type. Her child alone had power to move her to softness and 
smiles. 

Faith early learned to crow and gurgle her content; soon 
she voiced her sentiments so audibly that they could be 
heard all over the house. When she was absurdly young she 
fixed her wide, blue eyes upon Compton, who would not 
believe Rose-Ann’s reports of the child’s progress and came 
to verify them—and twisted her small face ecstatically. It 
was as if she had found something extremely gratifying about 
him. When he put his thin finger near her rosy ones, she 
enfolded it trustingly and Compton felt the thrill, as Rose- 
Ann did, in his very soul. The child was the first one he had 
ever intimately regarded. 

Townsend could never be brought to believe that it was 
good form to refer to his daughter. When he was obliged to, 
he did so guardedly and in private he contemplated her much 
as Jonathan Edwards might have done. Of course he hoped 
for her eternal salvation, but he held grave doubts about it. 
She had that unsettling look that marked Rose-Ann and she 
had her aunt’s vehement manner of protest. 

Trevall, as might have been expected, looked upon his 
granddaughter as an added grace to that which had been 
vouchsafed to him and his line. It was unfortunate that she 
was a female, but as she could not have borne his name in any 
case, it did not so greatly matter. He took for granted 
that the child would be christened Faith Trevall, but Pru¬ 
dence shook her head. 

“Father, I want her named Faith Adams.” And then 


140 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Prudence’s eyes grew misty as she recalled that late afternoon 
when the glory of the setting sun bathed them all, Rose-Ann, 
the baby, and her, in its warmth and joy. 

And while little Faith waxed strong and lovely the Torch 
Light had to shine with its own stored power, for Compton 
did not appear in Essex. 

There was considerable going on there, however. A 
strike was brooding darkly and Conklin at last asked Comp¬ 
ton to come to his office to consider the matter. 

The red-faced, bustling man bore little resemblance to the 
fellow creature who had sat in Compton’s library and shared, 
for an hour, that glimpse of a hell. Conklin was all business 
now, and irritable to the last degree. 

“We might as well understand from the start,” he began, 
waving his fat, hairy hand to a chair, “that I don’t stand 
for no funny business. I know what I’m about and this 
discontent that you’ve set going, Compton, ain’t going 
to get any one anywhere, and your staying away looks 
bad.” 

“What’s it all about?” Compton, perfectly groomed and 
calm, met Conklin’s assault with pleasant tolerance; “and 
I thought it best to stay away.” 

“The usual things,” Conklin lighted a strong black cigar. 
“What else have they to fight for, damn them! Wages, 
hours. What do they think is going to be the end, if we 
give in to them?” 

“It looks”—Compton leaned back, waved Conklin’s offer 
of a black cigar aside and lighted one of his own—“it looks 
to a layman like me, Conklin, as if they were after what most 
of us are after: better conditions; and that means, of course, 
more money and leisure.” 

“That’s damn rot, Compton. They waste their money 
and—get drunk.” 

“The equivalent of our free-handed indulgences. Cars, 
gambling, trips abroad, and a general hullabaloo!” 

“That talk doesn’t go down with me, Compton. Don’t try 
and pull it off. I notice that you like your daily bath and 
your big car as well as the rest of us.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


141 

“Exactly, Conklin, I do. I appreciate them so that I’m 
a bit keen that others should have the same sense of grati¬ 
fication about something. ,, 

“You believe in this pack getting drunk and wasting their 
wages and having more time in which to do it?” 

Conklin’s face suddenly flushed, for he saw Compton’s 
pale and wince. 

“No.” Compton flicked the ashes from his cigar. “But 
I cannot for the life of me, Conklin, see what right—what 
divine right, mind you—we have to limit them, if they can 
get by fair means, or a free fight, something better for them¬ 
selves. It’s what every nation and man has done from the 
beginning of things. We call it progress when we make the 
fight.” 

“I pay my men the regulation wages—in some cases more,” 
Conklin frowned. 

“I know you do, Conklin. But see here, you’re making 
more and more money; growing and reaching out, aren’t 
you ?” 

“Suppose I am. Haven’t I a right to a return for what I 
put in—brains, capital?” 

“Of course. And I suppose that your men think they 
have, also. They put in all they have. Health, strength, 
and—brains.” 

“The hell they do!” snapped Conklin. 

“I agree with you, Conklin,” Compton lighted another 
cigar, “but the fact is—here we are! We can have strikes 
and—who pays for them? There doesn’t seem much gain in 
individual cases, but on the whole the labouring man does 
get an inch ahead now and then.” 

“And we lose an inch now and then.” Conklin bit the end 
of his cigar and chewed it viciously. 

“Exactly.” Then Compton looked out of the window at 
the many chimneys belching smoke and proclaiming pros¬ 
perity. 

“Sometimes I’ve wondered,” he went on slowly, “what 
would happen if we, such men as you, Conklin—bolted!” 

“Bolted? What yer mean, bolted?” 


I 4 2 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Conklin’s interest was enlisted. 

"Oh! traditions. That’s what seems to me to be the 
trouble. You business men have visions, and you’re better 
than your daily deeds—I know that, Conklin. Now you’ve 
tried the old recipes for generations; same old materials 
though in different degrees and shapes. Why don’t you 
introduce a new ingredient?” 

"What in thunder-” Conklin’s jaws set heavily; 

"that’s the kind of rot that turns my belly, Compton. That’s 
the sort of thing I’ve got against you.” 

"I’m sorry, Conklin, but I am afraid I cannot help you 
much.” 

"Well, sir, by the Lord Harry, you’ve got ter!” 

Conklin got up and strode noisily about the room. 

"I guess you’ll think different after I get through. I be¬ 
lieve you can smooth these scamps down, Compton. The 
unrest is among the younger men—the older men are with 
me because of what they think you are trying to do with their 
rights and privileges. I don’t want a strike just now; it 
would mean more to me than it would a year from now. 
Compton, I want you to talk sense inter them.” 

As plain as a glance could carry Compton got Conklin’s 
thought. His glance seemed to say: "I have you in my 
power. You’ll either use your influence for me—or you’ll 
have no influence to use for any one.” 

"I’m not to be bought, Conklin.” 

The steady, cool voice sounded definite and final. Both 
men stared. 

"Who said you could be bought?” Conklin coloured a 
deeper red. 

"You suggested it. No, Conklin, I couldn’t interfere. 
If you can better the conditions of your men, I think you 
should do it before, not after, an ugly strike. If you cannot, 
they should be made to understand that by you—not by an 
outsider, like me.” 

"You mean that I should explain to those fellows; get down 
to them-” 

"Yes. That’s the way it seems to me, Conklin. You’re 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


i 43 

all in it together. Some of them could understand. I could 
name a dozen who could.” 

“You think they could be reasonable where their own 
interests are concerned!” 

“Yes, I do, Conklin, as reasonable—as you!” 

And still the two men faced each other as they had that 
night in Compton’s library. 

That subtle strain of understanding that had held them 
then held them now. Somewhere in their depths, they were 
strikingly alike. 

“By God!” muttered Conklin, “they’ll never get me to 
break down, damn them!” 

“I suppose you’ll all have to prove that,” Compton rose 
quietly. “It’s senseless loss and brutal folly, these strikes. 
Either men like you can do better or you cannot, but there is 
one thing sure in my mind, the true state of affairs should be 
common knowledge between you and your men.” 

“And a damned lot you know about it, Compton.” 

“No, I know, really know, nothing about it.” Compton 
had reached the door. 

“And what would you do about it, Compton?”—a sneer 
rang in the words—“just for argerment.” 

“I’m afraid very little, Conklin. I’m going down to the 
Club and talk to the men as I’ve talked to you. I’m going to 
urge them to understand—but if you refuse to help them to 
understand, why-” Compton spread his hands wide. 

“You’ll stand back of them if they strike?” Conklin 
scowled. 

“That depends, Conklin.” 

“Jest fer argerment again, suppose I let them in on an¬ 
other platform? Suppose I told them that the man they 


“Stop, Conklin. You’re not that kind. Once I might 
have doubted—I know better now. Along that line, I’ll 
back you. You couldn’t do it!” 

And Conklin knew that he could not. 

“But,” Compton went on, “if you want me to, I’ll lay the 
whole thing before them; everything, and I’ll get out.” 




144 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Conklin walked about restlessly. Suddenly he turned 
and faced Compton. 

“I know men,” he said, his words cutting sharply; “that 
would but make them hold to you fiercer; my telling would 
be another matter.” 

“Of course.” 

“I don’t believe you are counting upon that, Compton, 
but—it’s a fact. We both know it.” 

“Since we do, what shall we do about it? I leave it to 
you.” 

Conklin hesitated. 

“I’ll answer that later, Compton.” 

“Very well.” 

And the door closed behind Compton, leaving Conklin to 
face a grave situation, alone. 


CHAPTER XII 


W HAT really occurred to calm the situation in Essex 
that winter and spring no one really knew. Conklin 
faced a possible explosion, and waited. He Was a man 
that could estimate fairly well the time for action, but he 
decided that to know a time for no action was quite as im¬ 
portant. 

Compton was seen now almost daily in Essex—this fact 
became of vital importance to Conklin. He was watching his 
man as he was watching the results brought about, so he 
believed, by his man. He felt sure that Cleaver would call 
upon him in an emergency, but he felt daily more elated when 
by Compton’s appearance he knew that all was going well 
with him. 

But there was one phase of all this that caused Conklin 
great uneasiness. 

When he had enlisted Brady’s assistance as spy on the 
Torch Light proceedings, he had set in action more than he 
had realized at the moment. Brady was as keen as he was 
unscrupulous. There was no half way with Brady. When 
he was drunk he was out of the game; when he was sober he 
was as alert as a ferret. 

He believed that by espousing the cause of his master he 
would be furthering his own ends—and Brady had ambitions. 

Conklin, on the other hand, had wanted proof of certain 
things and was willing to pay for it, within limit, but he had 
no idea of involving himself. He had believed that Brady 
was a good dog to follow and fetch, so he set Brady on the 
Torch Light trail; but when he called his dog off he expected 
his dog to lie down content and gnaw his bone—Conklin to 
provide the bone. 

But Brady was not that kind of dog. He would follow and 

i45 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


146 

fetch, he would accept his bone, but he refused to lie content 
and gnaw—he buried his bones and nosed about for more. 
He never forgot where he buried his treasure. 

“See here, Brady,” Conklin said to his man while he was, 
himself, sitting on the lid of things, so to speak, and waiting, 
“there’s no need of your browsing up at the Torch Light any 
more and sitting on the penitent bench. I’ve got all I want. 
There’s nothing doing up there that counts. It’s all right— 
let the women have their little fling, they haven’t any Mill 
Tavern, you know.” 

Conklin meant to be facetious. 

Brady took offhis dirty woollen cap and scratched his head. 

“All right, boss,” he returned. “I’m ready ter quit. I 
ain’t had a free spell for nigh onter a month. What between 
work and settin’ up to the Club actin’ like a hallelujah man, 
there hasn’t been much time for the Tavern. A man’s got 
ter have his easy-goes, Mr. Conklin.” 

“All right, Brady, take your easy-goes, and forget it!” 

But the last command was impossible for Brady to obey. 

Imbibing freely at the Tavern or working ably at the mill, 
Brady could not “forget.” Why had he been set on Comp¬ 
ton? Why had he been so suddenly called off? Why were 
Conklin and Compton so thick all of a sudden? 

A dog like Brady must have scents. So he started on one 
of his own. 

“Double-crossing, I’ll be damned!” he concluded; “I 
smooth the back of you; you smooth the back of me; devil 
take ’em! I do what I blame please—and you tell ’em it’s 
all hunky dory.” That was Brady’s conclusion. 

The smothered strike certainly carried conviction with it— 
as far as Brady’s conclusions were concerned. 

“By the mother of heaven!” When Brady used this 
form of speech he was in his most dangerous mood. “I’ll 
get ter the bottom of this on me own! I’ll let the boys in on 
it when I clear it up and then see who’ll lead the pack, me 
hearties.” 

There are leaders in all spheres and when they clash, sys¬ 
tems are bound to go to pieces. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


H7 


Brady was fairly sure, so he thought, of Conklin. He knew 
his species. The old conception of a slave as a slave driver 
held true. Conklin had come up through the ranks fighting 
with the weapons with which Brady was familiar, but with 
Compton this was not so. 

Sitting, as Conklin called it, on the penitent bench, had 
widened Brady’s horizon. He watched the results of Comp¬ 
ton’s methods without in the least understanding them. It 
seemed impossible to get through that smiling, calm exterior 
of Compton. He appeared always intensely interested 
in the other man’s point of view. He never insisted upon 
his own. 

“So that’s the way it strikes you?” was his oft-repeated 
remark. “Well, if that is your honest opinion, I respect it.” 

Against such fairness the younger men at first were suspi¬ 
cious, but finding that Compton sincerely meant what he 
said, they had decency enough to make sure of themselves 
before judging him. Gradually, he became to them an 
Ideal; someone to whom they could look for disinterested 
leadership. Compton had nothing to gain. Once that was 
established to their satisfaction, they rallied around his 
standards with the humorous enthusiasm of youth. 

Compton assumed that others were as honest as himself— 
until they proved the contrary. That was his growing 
power in Essex; but Brady, whose philosophy of life was 
simple and direct, who had faith in no one and hated any one 
who cast reflections upon his motives, eyed Compton more 
and more keenly. 

And at this juncture Eric Manville came out of the Far 
West, unannounced—as might be expected of a man whose 
affairs were of the nature of his. 

He had replied to Compton’s many invitations with the 
information that he was tied hand and foot to his holdings. 
“Fighting off" thieves and spies,” he eloquently put it, while 
he neared the triumph of his life. 

Two weeks before his appearance in Middle Essex, he had 
sent a letter to Compton giving more detail than he had 
ever done. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


148 

It’s been a stiff uphill climb, old man, since those days in London 
when you grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, so to speak, and 
jammed me down the throats of those men who took me at your 
valuation. I had to make good or shoot myself—Eve about done 
the former, Compton, but I must stay here on the spot until I have 
all the material I want. 

This may mean years—but I can see success straight ahead and 
that is all that counts. 

It was an April evening, warm as June, and six months 
after Conklin had come to his understanding of Compton, 
when Manville arrived. 

The months had known their temptations and grim 
battles. Twice had Cleaver summoned Conklin; twice had 
the two men stood by Compton while the physical torture, 
unaided by the stupor of intoxication, shook him. They had 
helped as they could, had shared the awful moments, and 
Conklin, at least, had felt the sweat drop from his forehead as 
he withheld the drink that would have but added to Comp¬ 
ton’s degradation. 

When the conflicts had passed and Cleaver had moved 
silently from the room, Conklin, gripping the weak hand of 
the man on the bed, would mutter: 

“God! but you’ve won again.” 

That bare, unadorned fact was all that Compton had to 
show in the way of laurels—he had not lost in the last two 
encounters with his enemy! 

On that April evening Compton in his library was reading 
a book on psycho-analysis—the subject was one of deep 
interest to him. Here were new ideas that were combating 1 
old beliefs; they were full of hope in that they opened vast 
areas of unsuspected supply. 

Suddenly, just outside the door, he heard voices. 

“My good fellow, you need not tell him I’m coming—I’m 
here!” 

And into the warm bright library, with a stride that 
suggested a life in the broad out of doors, Eric Manville 
came. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


149 


Compton stared at him as he might at a creature from 
another planet. There was that about Manville that 
caused people to stare. He was over six feet tall, of the 
blond type that grows red-brown in the open and under the 
sun. His light hair, brushed rigidly from his wide, broad 
forehead, still held the curve that had been combated ever 
since its owner left school. 

“For the Lord’s sake, old man, don’t say that you have 
forgot me?” 

Manville loomed over Compton like an accuser. 

It was the comical, heart-warming smile that first pene¬ 
trated Compton’s confusion. 

And then Manville laughed—no one ever forgot that 
laugh. 

Compton rose unsteadily and held out his hands. 

“Eric Manville!” he murmured. Then again as if to 
make sure: 

“Eric Manville—of course!” 

“Can you put me up, Compton?” 

“Put you up? Why, I seem to have been waiting for 
the chance ever since I came here. Cleaver!” 

Cleaver entered at once. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Take Mr. Manville’s bags and open all the rooms up¬ 
stairs—he’ll suit himself later as to what ones he wants.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Then Compton turned to his guest. 

“Have you dined, Eric?” 

“Yes, in Boston. I had a couple of hours to wait for the 
train here. Gee, old man!”—Manville looked about the 
room—“some place, but too many books—they shut you 
in.” 

Then he drew a chair close to Compton’s, and leaning 
forward over his clasped hands, regarded his friend. 

“Yes, sir, that’s the matter with you—books have shut 
you in.” Manville never wasted time in reaching any fixed 
point. Compton’s appearance worried him. 

“I’m afraid my sudden swoop upon you has shaken you a 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


150 

bit, old man. Out where I live stray cattle and humans 
are all in the day’s job. Tve forgot the use of calling 
cards.” 

“That’s rot, Manville, and you know it. You’re as wel¬ 
come as a gift of God.” 

“Well, something rather big has unexpectedly come to me, 
Compton, and the devil of it alt is that I cannot explain just 
now. I’ve got to meet some men in New York, got to camp 
around for an indefinite time. When I fixed things up out 
West, you seemed to be the only thing on the map of the 
East and so I’m here. My Lord, Compton, but I have 
wanted to see you.” 

“Eric, my home is yours and you know that. Use it and 
me. The longer you stay the better. As to your private 
affairs, I’m no snoop but a masterhand as a waiter. Lord! 
how I have wanted to see what time had done to you.” 

“And how do I size up, Compton?” 

Manville asked this seriously, and sat back waiting the 
answer. 

“I could ask no more, Eric.” 

“That’s the best thing you could say, old man. Through 
all the years since I left you in London, I’ve rounded myself 
up, now and then, and counted the losses and gains with a 
view of handing you the total. There are items that you 
would disapprove of, Compton, but even they could be some¬ 
what explained; there have been big fights and a few victo¬ 
ries, a good many slumps, but on the whole a slow up-grade.” 

“I can see that, Manville. You’ve pulled your muscles 
at the right job.” 

For a few moments both men were silent, thinking of that 
time in London when Compton had come across Manville 
picturesquely throwing himself to the devil because life and 
love in his own country had dealt him a blow that had 
shattered his singularly high ideals and fine perceptions. 

Such men, cast from their legitimate spheres, swing more 
madly through space than others, and Manville was speeding 
dizzily when Compton, who knew his people as old friends of 
his mother, simply got in his path, stopped him abruptly, and 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


151 

sobered him by acting as if he saw nothing unusual in one of 
his countrymen making an ass of himself. 

He had seen more than Manville was ever to understand; 
had seen the suffering of a nature brutally disillusioned; had 
seen that Manville had still decency enough to carry on 
his self-destruction apart from them who might share his 
disgrace. 

He had exacted the plain courteous recognition from Man¬ 
ville that he might from any American who would naturally 
welcome a greeting from another American. 

And Manville, taken aback by the encounter, had rallied 
his abandoned social attributes and accepted the hospitality 
extended; though he had hated and resented it. 

Suddenly, he had become ashamed to have Compton know 
the extent of his weakness and dissipation. It took on an ap¬ 
pearance of cheap coarseness unworthy of any one who had 
had ideals—no matter how utterly those ideals had been 
betrayed. 

The quiet, restful home life into which Compton had 
brought Manville—it was before the death of his mother— 
sobered the younger man, while, for a time, it bored him. 
Then he met acquaintances of Compton’s—they had accepted 
him at the valuation Compton determinedly set upon him— 
a man of brains getting wider experiences. 

It was almost laughable, the estimate arrived at. Manville 
had recoiled from it in private but held to it in public because, 
from the first, he could not bring himself openly to fail 
Compton. The meeting had been so unexpected and had 
come at such a critical moment that he was partly supersti¬ 
tious and partly grateful. It had stopped him so sharply 
on the down-grade that he was a bit breathless. Even 
then, he recognized it as his last chance. 

The two men in the quiet library now faced each other 
and, presently, smiled. In the past it had been like that— 
silences, unbroken by question or answer, and then, com¬ 
plete faith. 

“Your mother’s death, Compton, hurt me cruelly. I 
tried to write, but letters of condolence—well! I couldn’t.” 


152 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“I understood, Eric. The flowers you ordered—the ones 
she loved best because you always brought them to her— 
were buried with her.” 

‘‘Thanks, old man. You see, just then I had to forget 
everything but the hope I was digging out of the works. It 
was nothing less than inspiration—your sending me back to 
the West in our country to make good, Compton. I couldn’t 
have done it here in the East, but out there, where once I 
had gone to play with gun and rod, out there where a fellow 
has a chance if it is in him to know a chance, I returned with 
pick and shovel. I had always had an idea about the place 
where I took up a claim—and a year after I went back the 
idea became a hope.” 

“And now, Eric?” Compton was intensely interested, 
but he knew of old that he must be content with what Man- 
ville offered in the way of confidences. 

“That’s it, old man. The hope is—well, pretty much a 
certainty, but I’ve got to be sure for myself and others be¬ 
fore I can share it with you, and yet I had to be near you, 
just now. You seemed the—well! the mascot. I got to 
believing that if I were near you, I’d go steadier.” 

“Thank you, Manville. And young Illington, how did 
he pan out?” 

Illington was a young Englishman who, when Manville 
returned to America, had joined him, hoping to regain his 
health. 

“He was a great kid, Compton. When once he got on his 
legs, he proved himself the real stuff and, without realizing 
it, held me to stiff jobs when, alone, I might have eased up. 

“When I looked at him, grimy and hard-fisted, and re¬ 
called how he had been the pet of tennis tournaments and 
dances, I braced up. The work and isolation were stimu¬ 
lants to him, and when I saw the look in his eyes at my 
lapses—there were lapses at first, Compton, along the old 
lines—I had to make a choice. I couldn’t bear the stare of 
contempt and surprise on that kid’s face. I either had to 
quit or keep his respect. 

“He became as hard as nails and he was an all-around 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


i53 


sport. When we got the hopes out of the idea, he went 
back to England—that was two years ago—to convert to our 
way of thinking some of his connections who have money. 
He got on their imaginations and, once they caught on, they 
took a leap ahead of Illington—so he cabled me and I’m 
going to meet some men in New York—they are on their way 
over now. 

“ But this is where you come in, Compton. My life in the 
West has messed me up—I cannot seem to get the soil off 
my hands. Illington is different. His roughness was like a 
disguise—I bet he was Gentleman Dick the instant he 
stepped off the steamer; but my roughness got to be my 
natural hide and I want to be polished up before I meet my 
men. See?” 

“You look fit to meet anything any country has to offer 
in men, Eric.” Compton said this seriously, and he was 
taking keen account of every detail of the big fellow near him. 

Manville laughed. 

“I know what you mean,” he said. “My clothes are all 
right—though I am conscious of them. It’s that, Compton. 
I want to lose consciousness of them. There was a time 
when I could, you know, and yet with the unconsciousness of 
togs, I may become conscious of that—hell slump. Women, 
business as it is done by whited sepulchres, you understand?” 

“Partially, Manville; but after all you’ve got the proof in 
yourself of the folly of lumping men and women, business, 
or anything else.” 

“Of course. But I want to hang around in the right 
setting while I’m getting ready to play my part.” 

“Well, Eric, I repeat, mine is yours for as long as you want 
it.” 

“Thanks. Let me get the reaction of my old life on me, 
Compton. I knew I’d find you—as I am finding you.” 
Then he laughed aloud and added: 

“But my God! this life would stifle me if I had to keep at 
it long, and it’s using you up. It is the real aristocracy here 
in America and—I need that just now; but I’ll cut it as soon 
as I can. I want you to understand.” 


i 5 4 THE TENTH WOMAN 

Then after another silence Eric broke forth as if straining at 
a leash. 

“Come outside, Compton. Let’s stretch our legs in this 
garden of yours.” 

And so until after midnight they paced the paths; smoked 
and talked in snatches. 

It was just as they parted for the night that Manville made 
Compton promise to go West in the near future. 

It was the second day of Manville’s visit that he met 
Rose-Ann or, to be more accurate, when Rose-Ann bore 
down upon him like a materialization of the day dream in 
which he was, for the moment, indulging. 

He was sitting on the south porch, basking in the sun¬ 
shine, inhaling the fragrance of the freshly mowed lawn and 
listening more to calls of his old, old past than to the riotous 
songbirds circling among the stately elms. 

Compton was in a distant part of the house telephoning 
to Boston for some saddle horses. 

Manville, who for years had held his old past in sub- 
servance, was keenly under its influence now. 

The refinement of his surroundings, the companionship of 
Compton, conspired to blur the experiences and achieve¬ 
ments that had so vitally absorbed him in the West. 

It surprised, and rather appalled, him to find how easily he 
slipped back into the luxury of Compton’s home; he felt a 
zest for the pleasures that once were his daily routine—while 
the rigorous details of his ranch life faded into a background 
that did not seem legitimately his. 

In this state of mind, as the abandoned past became dis¬ 
tinct and familiar, all that it held began to take on form and 
shape, as Manville had seen mountain peaks do—emerging 
from an enveloping mist. 

Was his recent life, then, but a mist? Was the old life, 
wherein he had suffered the disillusionment of all that to him 
had seemed vital, the real and abiding influence, merely lying 
in wait for him ? This, in the face of what he had believed he 
had accomplished, gave him a bad moment; shook his faith 
in himself. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


155 

Were it possible, he thought, for him, now that worldly 
success hovered near, to pick and choose, to accept or de¬ 
cline, all might be adjusted without great harm; but he was 
not free. Never before had this fact caused him dismay; it 
had been, he believed, the one great factor to which much of 
his happiness and success was due. The hold of others upon 
him had, he devoutly believed, been his support—not his 
drag. It had given back to him his belief in God—a rec¬ 
ompensing God; in man as a simple, just creature and in 
woman as the mate of such a man. 

Already Manville in his talks with Compton had been able 
to agree that much of his past disillusionment had been caused 
by his own abnormal and over-sensitive temperament. This 
certainly was true where men and business were concerned. 
Having achieved success in his own way he could be tolerant 
with others, concede that they might be as honest as him¬ 
self. Since he could hold to his own code independently he 
was now ready to deal with his fellows without bitterness or 
resentment. 

But there had been one blow dealt Manville that he had 
believed had deadened sensation—but had it? Suddenly this 
doubt brought a cloud to his face, a tenseness to his muscles. 

So sternly and determinedly had he put it under control, so 
definitely had he replaced it by other ideals and responsibili¬ 
ties, that to find it could disturb him now, even by sugges¬ 
tion, dismayed him. It was like a shadow falling, from an 
unsuspected cloud, upon a smiling scene. He wondered how 
women: women like the one- 

In that moment, as if to mock and deride him, the woman 
whom he had once loved, through whom had come the great¬ 
est sorrow and disappointments of his life, emerged from the 
mist. He tried to regard her impartially. 

She did not seem now The Woman so much as Woman. 
Woman , that held part in the life that Compton and his 
environment signified. 

“No! thank God,” Manville pulled himself up sharply; 
“she did for all her breed when she revealed herself. I have 
no more faith in her kind!” The very intensity of his declara- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


156 

tion should have warned Manville. “And also, thank God! 
the female does not seem to be included in Compton’s 
scheme,” he added with reviving relief. No; the effete and 
highly specialized woman could no longer have power over 
him, he concluded. 

It was merely her stalking ghost that had frightened him. 

Manville’s doubts passed; he was conscious of the spring 
warmth and the song of revelling birds. He was no longer 
afraid. He squared his great shoulders and plunged his 
hands deep in his pockets. 

“Bring on your spooks,” he thought, and grinned. “I’m 
ready for them.” 

And at that instant, the breath of his ice-clad hills, 
the freedom of his ranges, stirred his blood. He felt a 
spiritual homesickness for them that gave him a great 
peace. 

And into this sanctifying state a clear ringing voice broke: 

“ Barry, where are you ?” 

Manville braced as one does for an unexpected attack from 
the dark. 

“Oh, I see you sulking out there on the porch. Isn’t it a 
nippy day, Barry?” 

The invader, who was close now behind Manville, had 
discovered her mistake and was rigidly silent. 

Manville turned and he and Rose-Ann confronted each 
other. Neither spoke. What the man saw was a slim, 
girlish creature with shining hair and eyes. She wore the 
trappings of her kind. Every dainty detail struck Manville 
with sharp familiarity. 

What Rose-Ann saw was a strange man. Strange in 
every meaning of that word. 

She regained her poise first. 

“Excuse me. I am sorry. Have I frightened you?” 

This was an unfortunate form of expression. 

“I confess—you have.” Manville looked so comically 
sincere that Rose-Ann laughed. 

“You’ve rather frightened me,” she said, coming out into 
the full light of day. “I did not know that Barry-” 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


157 

And at that awkward moment Compton came upon the 
scene. 

He took in the situation at a glance. It amused him. 
Manville, in his absence, had been left to the mercy of a 
comic fate. 

“Rose-Ann,” he said, coming close to her, “this is Eric 
Manville, just out of the West, you know. Having said that 
he wouldn’t come, he came! He’s like that. Manville, 
this is my good friend Rose-Ann, officially Mrs. Braintree.” 

The introduction, for some reason, did not reduce the situa¬ 
tion to normal. The two acknowledged it, to be sure, but 
still with that strained manner so unusual with them 
both. Compton felt the atmospheric depression extending 
to him, so he broke into quick conversation as they all sat 
down. 

“I’ve ordered riding horses,” he said. “Manville can 
no more be happy without a horse than he could without his 
meals.” 

“Did you order three?” Rose-Ann asked. She seemed 
bent upon holding her gains now that she had forced an en¬ 
trance. 

“No, ma’am,” Compton was smiling, “only two.” 

“I suppose they have another?” Rose-Ann asked. 

Manville was watching the play between the two. 

“Because,” she went on, “I have always wanted to ride 
horseback—and this seems my chance. I meant to consult 
you about a horse, Barry.” 

“Impudence!” Compton looked severe. 

“I beg pardon,” the girl grew suddenly grave. Then, 
almost childishly, “I always talk foolishly, Mr. Manville, 
when I am nervously excited. You startled me. Just for a 
moment I thought I had known you, seen you somewhere 
before. I suppose it was because of Barry’s description.” 

Compton now stared. He had never described Manville 
to her, he felt confident, and yet Rose-Ann seemed perfectly 
sincere. 

“What I came for”— and now Rose-Ann turned frankly to 
Compton—“was to tell you that Mr. Conklin wants you to 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


158 

telephone to him at once. I met him on the road. He’ll 
be in his office at ten—it’s nine-thirty now. 

“Good morning!” She offered her hand to Manville. 
“Are you going to let us share you, or is Barry going to hide 
you—only exercising you on horseback?” 

“I hope I may have the pleasure”—Manville looked 
almost grim—“of meeting Compton’s friends. If one may 
judge from the sample.” His eyes held Rose-Ann’s. There 
was daring, challenge in his glance. 

Once brought to bay, Manville meant to see the thing 
through. The ghost had materialized, and still he was— 
safe! 

“Good-bye, then, until—the next time.” 

“Perhaps you’ll give us a cup of tea in your garden this 
afternoon?” It was Compton who spoke. He felt as if 
they were sending her away. She had a puzzled look in her 
eyes—the look of a child who is banished without reason. 
She brightened at once. 

“At four-thirty, then!” she said as she passed through the 
library and out of the front door. 

It was significant that neither Compton nor Manville 
referred to Rose-Ann again that day. 


CHAPTER XIII 


O F COURSE no other woman in Middle Essex would 
have done what Rose-Ann proceeded to do without 
realizing her danger. 

“She forgets that she is a married woman,” Prudence con¬ 
fided to her father as they discussed Rose-Ann’s amazing 
behaviour with Eric Manville. 

But if Rose-Ann ever considered her relations with Man¬ 
ville at all, she did so from the viewpoint of a safely married 
woman who loves her husband and can afford to evolve a 
code of her own. Only from that point of view could she 
have taken her pleasure. 

Marriage had given Rose-Ann more freedom than she had 
ever known. So happily could she move about that gradu¬ 
ally prisons were eliminated from her calculations—but the 
bars were there and Braintree held the key! 

However, during that spring Braintree was so proud and 
genial a jailer that no one suspected him. 

“Prudence,” John Trevall replied to his daughter’s con¬ 
fidence, ‘‘this is, I am glad to say, no longer our affair, except, 
of course, indirectly. If Braintree condones what he must 
surely observe, why!”—and Trevall spread his arms wide as 
if in proof that he had liberated Rose-Ann. 

The truth was that Braintree felt so sure of his wife and his 
position that he could afford a bit of mental strutting. It 
touched his vanity to see his possessions appreciated. It 
confirmed him in his good taste. 

He had never felt quite at ease about Rose-Ann’s intimacy 
with Compton, and it was with a sense of relief that he 
watched her growing friendship for Manville. 

“After all, it is the child’s love of pleasure that is at the 
i59 


160 THE TENTH WOMAN 

root of the matter,” he reflected. “ Personalities do not 
count with her.” 

But after the first weeks of his visit in Middle Essex, 
Manville took account of stock. 

Often he was away for several days at a time. Upon his 
return Compton gauged by Manville’s manner the results 
of his interviews, but they never discussed details. And if 
Compton observed these restrictions of business confidences, 
Manville observed certain others with Compton. Gradually 
he grew to suspect that either secret trouble or disease was 
at the bottom of Compton’s delicate appearance and gravity. 

“But he doesn’t want any reference made to them,” 
Manville decided, and merely looked forward to that time 
when he could get his friend out West. 

“Out where God can have His chance,” he thought, some¬ 
times with a sickening hunger himself for the freedom and 
glory that he loved. The East was already relaxing its hold 
upon his imagination. 

The order and discipline of Middle Essex amused and 
irritated him. Having long since freed himself from bondage, 
as he termed it, he could regard with indifference the emo¬ 
tions, or lack of them, that ruled his relations with others. 

“Lord!” he often said to Compton, “how do they manage 
to preserve their customs and their prejudices! You would 
think that they would either get so brittle that they would 
break or—sort of wear away.” 

Trevall especially set Manville’s teeth on edge; to the 
Townsends he gave little thought except as parents of Faith. 
Manville adored children in the shy, amusing way that marks 
the deep feeling, almost maternal, in some men. 

“The baby,” he confided to Compton, “reminds one of the 
sweet mayflower pushing its way through the snow and ice.” 

Little Faith was an excuse for meeting Rose-Ann, too. 
Such a natural and commonplace one. Rose-Ann caught 
and held Manville’s interest. Unconsciously he was com¬ 
bating what she, to him, represented. 

At first—but only for a few days—she suggested not 
woman, but The Woman> to him, and her appearance made 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


161 


him suffer twitches from that wound that he had hoped was 
healed. With the pain, the bitterness and resentment were 
revived. There were moments when Manville wanted to 
hurt Rose-Ann. The folly of this, however, reached his 
sense of humour and he met her puzzled expression at some 
crass remark of his with a laugh that was a forerunner of a 
saner state of mind. 

Then Rose-Ann merged into woman of the type that The 
Woman had been. As such she became fair game. 

Gently reared and educated, married to a man who 
adored her and who slaved in order that she might be a 
waster of time and money, Rose-Ann could not expect mercy 
from one who understood the situation. Rather contemptu¬ 
ously, then, Manville found Rose-Ann excitingly amusing; he 
began to watch for her at every possible point of contact; 
she gave him a new belief in himself. 

“With her type,” he tried to condone his brutal attitude 
of mind, “one need not be on guard for himself or—her. She 
knows the game.” 

Manville liked Braintree. Liked him mostly for the 
characteristics that Braintree really did not possess, but 
with which he had to be endowed in order to fill Manville’s 
conception. Braintree’s evident pride in and devotion to 
Rose-Ann appealed to Manville almost pathetically. 

“He’ll get a big shake-up some day if he doesn’t open his 
eyes,” he thought. And with that thought came another. 
“If he does wake up, what is he going to do about it?” 

As a matter of fact it was Manville’s own imagination, 
tinged by his really narrow experience, that governed the 
second stage of intimacy with Rose-Ann. She would have 
been appalled had she suspected that he doubted any word or 
action of hers. She would have called him by several 
salutary and uncomplimentary names. 

As it was, he was simply Barry’s friend; one whom Barry 
loved above all others; one who was making the quiet house a 
cheery home for Barry and a place of laughter and song. 
And so she expanded to Manville as the spring flowers were 
doing to the sun that was to betray them a little later. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


162 

The real situation was this: Manville, supported by the 
restored belief in himself and the strong ties he had evolved 
in his private life, was advancing toward a point of serious 
danger. 

And Rose-Ann, ignorant of the wild strain in her blood 
that had been suppressed or disregarded, secure in herself, as 
she and others believed herself to be, gaily sped along toward 
the same point of danger that loomed like the peak of a 
triangle. Up one side went Rose-Ann; up the other—Man¬ 
ville—separated wide at the base, but blindly coming closer, 
while the spring—a particularly mad and tricky one, lured 
them dreamily. 

In Manville, presently, another change took place. He 
could look upon Rose-Ann as once he had looked at all 
women: with faith and reverence. It would be difficult to 
describe just how Rose-Ann overcame Manville’s distrust of 
her. Little incidents often create ripples that reach to the 
uttermost rim of the space that confines us all. 

As time went on, quite naturally Rose-Ann met Manville 
on the road. Compton had interested him in the Torch 
Light Club and he was often to be found there—an inspira¬ 
tion to the young members and a puzzle to Conklin, who 
often talked with him. 

“Why, you fellows talk,” he burst out to Manville one day, 
“as if you thought the systems were wrong instead of the 
damnably wrong way weak fools tackle them. Don’t you 
know yer can’t change certain things?” 

But Manville, always laughing as if he had inside informa¬ 
tion, gave it as his opinion that certain things, especially, 
could be changed. 

And then he proceeded, flying under Compton’s colours, 
to show how they might be changed. He soon had a brave 
following in Essex and boomed Compton’s popularity. 

“By the Lord Thunder!” Conklin vowed, “I ain’t going 
to stand for everything Compton hands out. Let him dig 
his own grave if he likes the job. This Western element 
finishes me.” 

But the Torch Light was another meeting place for Man- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 163 

ville and Rose-Ann. Such a natural one, too. Who could 
possibly object? 

And if, in her swift-moving car, Rose-Ann overtook 
Manville swinging along the highway as if it were illimitable 
space, she could hardly rush by without offering him a lift. 

And then, for the spring weather acted as if it had come to 
stay, Rose-Ann sought certain secret and isolated sanctuaries 
where dog-tooth violets, Stars of Bethlehem, and arbutus 
grew in riotous abundance and, to her shocked surprise, she 
frequently found Manville there. 

“ Do you mind ?” he asked humbly, and because Rose-Ann 
had not the slightest suspicion of that strain in her that 
brought the twinkle to her eyes and the dimple to her right 
cheek, she answered: 

“Why should I mind? It makes me glad to think another 
likes what I like.” 

After that—what was one to say? 

The Club and the mad dashes over the highway in the 
roadster had given small opportunity for Rose-Ann to reveal 
herself, but those quiet walks in the deep, springy woods, the 
close contact while searching for flowers, left the way open for 
the real poetic beauty of Rose-Ann’s nature to ripple through. 

It seemed like the streams to Manville at first, streams that 
were breaking the crust of ice as they gathered force. And 
it was not the man who had hacked and hewed a place for 
himself with his broken faith and lost illusions that began to 
comprehend Rose-Ann, but the man Manville had been 
when he entered life with the sensitive ideals that naturally, 
as might be expected, had gone down before reality. 

Quite frankly and with simple ignorance, Rose-Ann began 
the readjustment of herself in Manville’s mind, by convincing 
him that she was deeply and genuinely in love with her hus¬ 
band. This was disarming and, at the same time, protecting. 

How it happened Rose-Ann could never tell, but she one 
day told Manville about her articles in the Criticism. She 
did this partly to exonerate Compton—Manville had heard of 
the resentment the articles were causing. Having confided 
that, it became necessary to get Manville’s promise of secrecy. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


164 

“But why?” pondered Manville, and presently he got a 
vision. The horizon widened, and upon it arose dim out¬ 
lines that called for investigation and classification. 

Finally Manville arrived at a very humane and moral 
conclusion. 

Neither Braintree nor Rose-Ann realized the danger that 
lurked behind the first early glow of passion and possession. 
The lack of confidence, the fear of misunderstanding would 
assume ugly proportions if they were put to the test of cold 
reasoning with such a man as Braintree and such a woman as 
Rose-Ann. They must not come to the test! 

Manville, and quite humbly, too, thought that he might 
open Rose-Ann’s eyes without alarming her. She was like a 
heedless child playing among the holy traditions of her 
people. So long as it was play and nothing toppled over, 
there was no cause for alarm, but full well, Manville knew, 
counting his own scars, the effect of dislodging one cheap 
but sacred idol. 

Having, then, this disinterested aim in mind, he gave small 
heed to intermittent danger signals that would have attracted 
the attention of a man as worldly wise as he believed himself 
to be. 

It was on a deceiving day, the first of May, that Manville 
and Rose-Ann, leaving the car by the roadside, went into 
the woods to seek whatever flowers they could discover. 
The earth was damp and spongy, and gave forth that pecu¬ 
liar fragrance that only the spring can evoke. 

“Remembering the tricks of New England weather,” 
Manville said, leaping over a small-sized brooklet and 
offering his hand to Rose-Ann, “I tremble for these foolish 
blossoms. They should know better after all their ex¬ 
periences.” 

“Oh! each little blossom has its own experience, you 
know. What does it care for the traditions of its grand¬ 
parents?” Rose-Ann, smilingly putting Manville’s hand 
aside, sprang lightly across the water. 

“See! I want my experience—all alone.” This was an 
inspired opening for Manville’s train of thought. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 165 

“Experiences of others should count,” he said, “and they 
do help one to go alone.” 

“They hamper one abominably.” Rose-Ann was quite 
serious. “You know that very well, Mr. Manville. You 
cut and ran. Barry told me the other day that you are a 
New Englander. Somehow I thought you were born in the 
West. I can account for you better now that I know your 
beginnings.” 

This was a bold attempt to get control of the situation and 
Manville took a stand. 

“Hardly any one over ten is born in the West,” he re¬ 
plied, bending to brush aside a pile of damp leaves that 
suggested a hiding place for ambitious mayflowers. “They 
get born and have ideas, then go West and—get rid of their 
ideas! 

“But, quite seriously, Mrs. Braintree, I know from my 
own life that the experiences and traditions that were my 
inheritance have helped.” 

“That’s the way folks always talk when they’ve demanded 
and exacted what they are afraid to trust to others. Barry 
has told me a good deal about you, you see, Mr. Manville.” 

This was disconcerting, and for an instant paralyzing 
to austerity. 

Looking up from the ground—for Manville had uncovered 
some lovely blossoms—he regarded Rose-Ann, leaning 
against a slim white birch, with amusement. 

“I wonder what Barry has told you?” he asked boyishly; 
boldly. 

“Oh! heaps. First you were a petted son of One of Our 
Finest. You used to go out West for vacations to kill 
things. The idle rich always want to kill things, but sud¬ 
denly something happened, Barry skipped over that—and 
then you went West and did things. Quite marvellous 
things. You blazed your own trail, Barry picturesquely 
explained, and I’ll wager it wasn’t cluttered with the trash of 
others.” 

Manville flushed and laughed. He was relieved and 
reassured. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


166 

“To a certain extent that is so, Mrs. Braintree. Like the 
usual young ass—I first went to devastate and called it fun. 
When I went with shovel and pick-axe I had only construc¬ 
tion in mind. I did blaze my own trail, in a way. Of 
course a clutter of trash would have hobbled me, but I 
insist that I would have made a poor fist of it if, in my con¬ 
scious thought, there had not been knowledge of trail blazing 
and in my blood the—something that my forbears stood 
for.*' 

Rose-Ann listened, but her eyes were twinkling. 

“Do you know,” she said presently, “you sound exactly 
as if you had joined the army of my—my suppressors. I 
have an awful suspicion that you think I need snubbing.” 

Manville flushed guiltily and got up a bit awkwardly, his 
hands w T ere full of moist earth in which were bedded the 
pale pink arbutus buds. 

“Here is my contrite offering,” he said. 

In an instant Rose-Ann’s mood changed. She took the 
flowers reverently and bent her face over them. 

“Oh!” she whispered, “I hope when I die God will put me 
in the class where they make colour. I suppose colour 
affects me as music does music lovers: sunsets and sunrises, 
the streak of light on the water when the moon strikes it, or 
the setting sun. Even the blobs of oil on the roads—have 
you ever noticed how beautiful they are? Colour does some¬ 
thing to my heart. Just look at these shades of pink in 
the little bunch of flowers! Can’t you imagine the fun the 
seraphic colour class must have had?” 

Manville was strangely moved as he looked at the suddenly 
raised face and extended blossoms. He heard himself saying 
something not in the least like a friendly mental nudge re¬ 
lating to tradition and inherited ideals. 

“You make me think of Green Fire. I always mess up a 
quotation, but it goes something like this: 

You are April Green Fire, 

A flame that flickers, glitters, 

But—never glows’.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


167 

Rose-Ann drew back slowly; the flowers dropped from her 
relaxed hands and lay at her feet—pitiful, wilted things that 
had had only strength enough to push their way through the 
snow. They could not endure the hot human touch. 

“You—you must not say things like that to me,” she 
murmured. “Let us go now.” 

“But your flowers-” Manville said. 

Rose-Ann looked sadly at them. 

“They are spoiled, too!” she said softly, then looked up at 
Manville and—laughed. 

Manville, strange to say, instead of feeling subdued by 
Rose-Ann’s quick resentment of his pushing against the lines 
of her reservations, was gravely impressed. First, by a realiza¬ 
tion of her knowledge of reservations and secondly by her 
instant defence of them. His responsibility was lightened. 

“She begins to chafe,” he thought, but he loved the atti¬ 
tude she had taken. He could be now her friend in very 
truth. She had not merged into Woman, thank Heaven. 
She still was what he had once hoped all women were; in a 
subtle way she had proved herself. 

It was absurd to put so much importance upon the oc¬ 
currences! Suddenly this aspect of the affair struck Man¬ 
ville. He regarded himself as crudely egotistical. Rose-Ann 
had smartly reprimanded him by a delicate revealment of 
himself and sent him about his business. 

Side by side he and she now walked from the sweet, 
fragrant woods. 

“Dear me!” Rose-Ann sighed as if regretting the de¬ 
parture. “Not since I was a little girl have I heard, as I 
have to-day, the sap running up from the roots of things. 
I think-” 

“What, Mrs. Braintree?” 

“I almost think that I shall see pictures in the fire to¬ 
night, just as I did ’way back in the days of my youth.” 

Manville longed to carry on this whimsical train of thought, 
but instead he said, sniffing the air like a thing of the wild: 

“If I were in my cabin, I should say there was to be a 
change of weather. Rain in the valley; snow on the peaks.” 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


168 

Rose-Ann lifted her small nose and sniffed also. 

“And I warn you,” she whispered, “not to put your faith 
in any New England spring. There may be snow on the 
way.” 

“Impossible! With this temperature, and the flowers as 
advanced as they are! Why, Em no defender of the New 
England weather, but you must not exaggerate, Mrs. Brain¬ 
tree. Do not forget that before I was of the West, I was of 
the East.” 

The reiteration of her name irritated Rose-Ann, though 
she could hardly have told why. It seemed like insistence 
upon an unnecessary thing, with the hope that she would 
notice it. It was as if Manville wanted her to understand 
that he had accepted her rebuke. 

“Mr. Manville,” Rose-Ann meant to combat the im¬ 
pression in her own way. “Some day I want you to tell me 
about the time between your first visits to the West and— 
your shovel-and-pick-axe campaign. I wonder if we are 
good enough friends for that?” 

Having asked this amazing question, Rose-Ann flushed as 
Manville had done earlier at her rebuke. 

She was trying to condone her brusqueness, to reestablish 
the old footing; but she realized, with something of a shock, 
that her attempt at dignity had not shaken Manville’s 
position, but had apparently strengthened it—he was smiling 
at her, seeking to—put her at her ease. 

“Yes. We are good enough friends for that, Mrs. Brain¬ 
tree. It is the one thing above all else that I want to do. 
Somehow I think we will be better friends afterwards. I 
want us to be—that kind of friends. Pm getting balled up, 
but you understand?” 

“I think I do. Yes.” And Rose-Ann believed she did. 

When they reached the car, the smiling day had begun 
to sulk. A chill was in the air and a high wind was stirring 
the tree tops. High in the sense that it caught only the 
lofty branches—the bushes by the roadside barely stirred. 
It was a warning wind. 

^ “The wind is with us,” Rose-Ann said, starting the car. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 169 

“Of course,” Manville bent forward to raise the wind 
shield; “but this quality of wind may change its mind.” 

Then, as if he were leading up, as a preface does, to the 
story he was some day to tell, Manville talked of the scene of 
his home to Rose-Ann as he never had before. Silently she 
listened, merely asking a question now and then to clarify 
a point that particularly fired her imagination. 

Quite distinctly she saw, like a mirage ahead on the road 
over which they were flying, the log ranch-house with the 
huddling cabins close at hand. 

“I’m a terribly gregarious fellow,” Manville explained; 
“the people with whom I work, among whom I live, mean a 
lot to me!” 

“The men have their families with them?” Rose-Ann 
broke in. “It must be like a Swiss hamlet. I suppose in 
winter with the twinkling lights and all that, it looks like a 
frosted Christmas card.” 

“No.” Manville, bent upon accuracy, was keen about 
details. “We’re a male bunch—only one woman on the 
place-” he stopped suddenly. 

“Your housekeeper? I remember you spoke of her the 
other day to Barry.” Rose-Ann regretted her interrup¬ 
tion—it interfered with the main interest. 

“My housekeeper, yes—and a woman who often stays 
months with us—mending, patching clothes and sick chaps. 
She raps our knuckles and—in a way makes us human. She 
and the housekeeper are the only women.” 

“Of course. All men or all women are deadly.” Rose- 
Ann nodded. 

“There was a slight pause. The personal note had jarred 
the easy flow of the story. In the silence both Manville 
and Rose-Ann veered away from the personal. 

“There’s one canyon near my ranch,” Manville suddenly 
plunged in, “that has an Indian legend that I like. It is 
said that all spirits, departing this life, go out through that. 
At sunset and sunrise, I have watched the mists drifting be¬ 
low, and I have fancied that I saw pale, groping wraiths on 
their way. Oddly enough I went for the first time through 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


170 

that canyon when I was making for my holdings with my 
shovel and pick-axe. It was the shortest, but the roughest, 
trail. The idea got sort of rooted in my mind at that time 
that I was passing out of the old life, you know—and into 
the new. Thoughts like that often have an influence upon 
one. They did upon me.” 

Rose-Ann caught her breath and her eyes were shining— 
the mirage on ahead took on a most substantial appear¬ 
ance. 

“I’d like to pass out through that canyon,” she whispered 
more to herself than to Manville, “in the morning.” Then, 
as if coming out of a dream: “You have made me see it all, 
Mr. Manville. It will never seem like a picture again— 
the picture is alive. 

“Why, somehow, the lovely things around here—”she 
lifted one hand from the wheel and gave a wide sweep toward 
the woods and cloud-filled west —“these things seem like 
pictures. Etchings, you know. Quite well done in every 
detail; framed and—hung up!” 

“I wonder,” Manville was watching the face whose pro¬ 
file was hypnotizing him, “I wonder what effect the big, 
unfinished canvas would have upon you? One over whose 
surface the hand of the Artist is still moving?” 

“Please!”—and Rose-Ann turned toward him for an in¬ 
stant—“please, I cannot bear any more. It arouses some¬ 
thing in me that makes me afraid. Something-” She 

hesitated as a child might who can hardly hope for under¬ 
standing. 

“I am bungling terribly, Mr. Manville, but once I had 
the maddest desire to see and—and do the whole world. 
There is a difference, you know, between seeing and doing. 
I may see a good bit of it some day, but I chose something 
that I cared for more than the doing of the world, and I do 
not like to”—Rose-Ann’s face blazed—“have my feelings 
tricked.” Then, realizing somewhat the extent of her 
bungling, she added, flippantly: “And that sounds rude. I 
begged you to tell me a story and you have. Told it so 
wonderfully that it seems real and makes me want it as a 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


171 

baby wants the moon. I was always one to want my cake 
and—and crumble it as well. 

“And here we are—at Barry’s gate.” 

Manville got out. 

“Do you know,” he said, and his words were slow and 
deliberate, “you have given me a bit of your real self to-day, 
Mrs. Braintree. I thank you. Good-bye.” 

Rose-Ann made no reply, but turned her car skilfully and 
drove toward her home. 

In the distance she heard the whistle of the train from 
Essex. Braintree would be on that train unless he came in 
her father’s car. 

Manville’s last words rang in her ears, and presently they 
became her mother’s words. She flinched then and her eyes 
widened. The day had done great things to her—she 
realized that. It had revealed her to a stranger; and, some¬ 
what, to herself. She realized that she was hiding her real 
self from them she loved best—and she was letting her 
longings and desires eat in! 

She felt frightened; guilty. She had a mad desire to 
reach the station before that oncoming train. She wanted to 
meet Braintree before something else met him and harmed 
him. With all her quickened emotions Rose-Ann wanted 
her husband, but even more she wanted, at that moment, to 
keep herself as she really was and find peace. 

In a vague way she felt that she was hurrying home as she 
had never hurried before. Escaping from something. 
Desperately yearning for love, safety, and a happiness that 
were threatened by she knew not what—she hurried on. 

And that evening, as such things often occur, Braintree 
chose the wrong moment for doing a very innocent thing 
and, by so doing, created a situation that should not have 
been created. 

: After dinner, Rose-Ann and he went to their cosy library. 
Rose-Ann was in high spirits and regarded her husband as a 
wife does regard a husband whom she has spiritually be¬ 
trayed for an instant, and longs, for that reason, to lay a 
special offering on his altar. 


172 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


" Billy, let’s have a fire. There’s a sound in the chimney 
that means a change of weather.” 

Braintree touched a match to the carefully laid kindlings. 
They “caught” at once and licked at the logs with greedy, 
little red tongues. 

“And now, Billy, let’s sit, both of us, in one big chair and 
—see things in the fire!” 

Rose-Ann meant to drag her secret fear into the open and 
do it to death in her husband’s arms. 

And Braintree, equally bent upon another course, gladly 
complied. 

He had nothing to fear; nothing to drag forth or do to the 
death, but he felt the time had arrived to draw his wife’s 
attention to the limit of her freedom. Of course there was a 
limit to the freedom of everybody. 

“My precious little goosie!” Braintree pressed his lips to 
the bright head snuggling against his shoulders. “What do 
you see in the fire?” 

“Oh! things. Things very bewitching. Billy, sometimes 
I’m just a little afraid that you are trusting me too much—I 
mean that you do not really fathom me. I am extremely 
deep, good man, and ’way down in the bottom of my being 
there are stirrings-” 

Braintree for a moment knew a sensation of discomfort 
such as he had known the day of the Aunt Theodora con¬ 
fession and the conversation concerning Patsy. Marriage, 
then, had not done all that he had hoped it would do! 

“My darling, you must not talk like that. So long as 
you play around and enjoy yourself I have no inclination to 
curb you, but if you have doubts of yourself, my sweet—can 
you not see? To him that thinks a thing is wrong—to him 
it is wrong. Why, I told Prudence to-day-” 

He got no further. Rose-Ann stiffened and withdrew 
from the circle of Braintree’s arms. She quietly brought 
a stool to his side and sat down, gathering her knees 
in her clasped hands as if to control every muscle of her 
body. 

“Billy,” she said quietly, “I did not know that you ever 




THE TENTH WOMAN 


i 73 

discussed me with others. Against what were you defend¬ 
ing me to Prue?” 

This was unfortunate. Braintree disliked the suggestion 
of disapproval. 

‘‘My dear little girl,” he said, “I do not discuss you with 
any one. You must know that. But when your sister made 
what seemed to her a very natural remark, I was obliged to— 
not defend you, my darling, but explain.” 

“Explain, Billy? Explain what?” Then: “Prue should 
have eleven children and a drunken husband.” 

Braintree did not laugh. As they had Manville, Rose- 
Ann’s reactions made him alert. 

“ I thought,” he said slowly, keeping his eyes on the sweet, 
indignant face close to him, “that by your own observation, 
dear girl, you might realize in due time that others are not as 
guiltless and innocent as you. I, having no doubt myself, 
have always thought it better that you should develop along 
your own lines-” 

“What on earth are you talking about, Billy?” Rose-Ann 
confronted him angrily. 

“Why, my dear child, you cannot possibly blame people, 
some unthinking people, for disapproving of a young married 
woman being as—as free with men as you are. As for my¬ 
self, I can only say that I want you to be happy—in your own 
way, unless your own way is harmful to you, Rose-Ann. 
You should be the quickest to see that point, my darling, and 
even at the risk of your getting rather an abrupt awakening, 
I thought it wiser to leave you alone until something con¬ 
vinced you. I will never willingly, Rose-Ann, interfere with 
your happiness—I trust you entirely; I know you as no one 
else does. I intended to tell you all this as a background for 
the moment when you might be rudely startled—but-” 

Rose-Ann turned her back to Braintree. He thought she 
was crying, her shoulders shook. 

“Precious! look at me.” 

“I cannot, Billy, I am—seeing things in the fire, and they 
are a bit blurry.” 

“Rose-Ann, are you crying, my darling?” 



174 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“No, Billy, I’m sorry to say I’m laughing. You poor 
dear! Just think how we have blundered when we have to 
resort to such scenes as these. Billy, not to-night, but soon, 
you and I must see things unblurred.” 

She rose and went across to the window. With her back 
still to Braintree she said gently: 

“I suppose many young people who love each other, 
Billy, go hiding behind all sorts of screens, content to talk 
—around corners. But we are not like that—we must smash 
our screens. When the time comes that I hesitate before 
saying anything to you—I must look out!” 

“Rose-Ann!” 

Braintree’s face was white and stern. 

“I’m not going to talk any more to-night, Billy. If I 
did, Td make a mess of it.” 

She turned then and her eyes were radiant. She smiled 
bravely. 

“I love you, Billy!” she said wistfully. “I love you—let 
us rest on that for to-night.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


T HE day following was cold and stormy. 

“Winter is set again,” groaned the new maid in the 
Braintree kitchen. This girl had not Patsy’s radiant 
good nature and luring charms, but she was moral and faith¬ 
ful and so could afford fits of gloom and sniffles. She adored 
Rose-Ann and permitted herself the luxury of relying upon 
her mistress for all that was the equivalent of frivolity and 
beauty. 

Maggie was heavy and unlovely, but she was a practical 
machine and carried out the rules of the house devoutly. 

“Winter is set again,” she groaned, “and I was a-going to 
whitewash the cellar for a surprise.” 

Why winter’s return should interfere with the plan, 
Maggie did not explain to herself, but it excused a case of 
low spirits and preserved her self-respect. 

Rose-Ann sang about the house. She read Whittier’s 
“Snowbound” and made buttered popcorn. She tele¬ 
phoned to Prudence and begged her to put small Faith to the 
receiver. She was desperately seeking to forget the night 
before. 

“How foolish, Rose-Ann!” Prudence called back. 

“I know, Prue, that’s why I ask it. The weather’s foolish; 
the world’s foolish—connect me with your daughter.” 

Even Prudence relented. Then from Rose-Ann: 

“Baby dear?” Silence. 

“Baby, sweet, this is Auntie Rosie-Annie.” 

“Goo!” 

“Of course. I knew that you would understand. Sweet, 
here’s a kiss.” 

Then from Prudence: 

“Rose-Ann, Central will think you are mad.” 

i75 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


176 

“And so I am!” Then after a pause: 

“Father all right, Prue? ,, 

“I saw him pass at the usual time.” 

“I had a queer dream about him, Prue.” 

“What?” affrightedly. 

“I dreamed that he did not pass at the usual time.” 

“What ails you, Rose-Ann?” 

“Nothing. Snow always affects me so.” 

The receivers were hung up. 

An hour later Maggie pounded upstairs and found Rose- 
Ann in the attic. 

“Well, my stars!” the girl exclaimed; “what are you up 
ter?” 

“The eaves, Maggie.” 

“Ma’am?” 

“Up to the eaves, Maggie. Just listen to the snow on the 
roof. I never would have had an attic except for the glory 
of hearing the rain and snow on it.” 

“It sounds messy ter me,” Maggie said judicially, “and 
besides, ma’am, there’s a call for yer on the telephone.” 

Rose-Ann ran down the two flights of stairs. 

“Yes,” she said in the receiver. 

“This is Manville.” 

Had she been waiting for that call? 

“Good morning, Mr. Manville.” The face by the receiver 
was pale. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Braintree.” 

“Is that all?” 

“Not on your life. Say, will you let me give you a thrill 
in your own country?” 

“That depends. And besides—you cannot.” 

“I’ll prove the latter.” 

“Outdoors—or in?” 

“Outdoors.” 

“If there’s anything you can teach me out of doors in my 
own countryside, I’ll give you the opportunity,” Rose-Ann 
ended with a laugh. 

“A bargain then. At ten?” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


177 

“I*-” Rose-Ann glanced over her shoulder at the 

clock and was conscious of weighing a big matter that had 
all the appearance of being a mere bagatelle. 

“It’s nine-thirty now.” This from Manville. “ 1*11 
be along at once. I must go to New York to-morrow—and of 
course there is only to-day for this snow. Good-bye.” 

Rose-Ann hung up the receiver and stood for a moment 
gravely considering. She was sorry and glad! She mentally 
declared that her world was all right—but she knew that it 
wasn’t! That doubt of herself, of any one, should shake her, 
proved that her world was anything but right. But in order, 
so she argued, to get things back where they belonged, she 
must not admit that she had been wrong. She must go on— 
not back. Of course there was nothing to go back to, and 
after she had that talk with Braintree that she was going to 
have, there would never again be doubt. So Rose-Ann went 
upstairs to get ready for out of doors. 

She did not intend to give herself any leeway. She put 
on her most attractive tramping garb, knowing full well how 
becoming it was. 

“Why not?” she demanded of herself. “Why not, 
indeed!” 

She decided, too, while she pulled her tarn to the most 
dangerous angle, to pass Prudence’s house no matter in what 
direction Manville’s “surprise” lay. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” again she sternly demanded. “If 
I had any reason for not doing it, I’d think shame to myself. 
Shame, Mrs. William Braintree.” 

At ten Manville rang the doorbell. That and the clock 
in the hall struck together on Rose-Ann’s ears. 

Maggie admitted Manville and turned to see her mistress 
close to her. 

“Maggie,” Rose-Ann nodded to Manville, “if Mr. Brain¬ 
tree calls up, tell him I have gone for a walk with Mr. Man¬ 
ville, but will drive into Essex for him this afternoon.” 

There was a challenge in this and Manville felt it with a 
subtle resentment. 

Once outside, the irritation passed. An imp of the per- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


178 

verse rose in him. He would not permit any nonsense to 
mar his last day. He knew that it was his last day. He 
must have a talk with Compton that evening, and although 
he would have to conceal much, he must share what he could. 
His business had suddenly focussed; his ultimate success was 
in sight; he had all but won out, and a great sense of exulta¬ 
tion swept over him. Rose-Ann’s pricks could not hurt him. 

“ I wager you are going to take me up to the pond to slide,” 
Rose-Ann twinkled, keeping her eyes on ahead. 

“No, I am not, Mrs. Braintree. But where are you 
going ?” for Rose-Ann was headed toward the Townsend 
house. 

“I—I want to stop at my sister’s,” she said. 

“Please do it on our way back,” Manville pleaded. “The 
sun is menacing everything. You’ll be sorry by and by if 
you don’t humour me, Mrs. Braintree.” 

“All right!” Rose-Ann tossed her head. Why indeed 
should she go to her sister’s? To insist would be to own 
herself in the wrong. 

And then she and Manville, subconsciously surrendering 
to fate, trudged on. They soon left the road and struck 
across the fields of damp, unbroken snow. They entered the 
woods that rimmed the hills on the right; they pushed 
through the underbrush and presently found themselves in a 
small circle that looked as if it had been cleared by human 
hands. The overreaching boughs of hemlock and pine had 
caught and held the snow, and they stood, as a wind-break, 
about the still and lovely spot. 

“It is divine!” The words broke from Rose-Ann. She 
was caught in the meshes of her quick, vital imagination. 

“And it is a surprise?” Manville stood looking down 
upon her. 

“Yes. Somehow I never thought of—just this.” 

Manville smiled happily and said: 

“It—the snow, you know—made me think of my home. 
I recall once, years ago it was, I was alone on my ranch—it 
was Christmas and I suddenly got devilishly homesick. I 
packed some food in my sack and set out for the Lord knew 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


179 


what, and ten miles beyond, among some trees like these, I 
came upon another homesick devil headed for my ranch. 
We almost wept on each other’s necks. We lighted a fire 
and had our Christmas dinner—on the snow.” 

Rose-Ann’s eyes were shining; her face twitched. 

“I—I am afraid I’m going to cry,” she faltered. “It was 
so wonderful and—and pitiful—your Christmas dinner and 
your loneliness.” 

“Don’t cry, please.” Manville tossed a bag he had been 
carrying to the ground, “I’m going to make a fire and-” 

“What have you in that bag?” Rose-Ann asked sternly. 

“Luncheon. I bribed Barry’s cook.” 

Rose-Ann sat down upon a log and laughed. 

“I have a deep and desperate plan, Mrs. Braintree.” 
Oh! the reiteration of her name! Rose-Ann felt about it as 
she did her father’s tapping on the arm of his chair. 

“I am going to take you at your word and tell you 
about the time that lay between rod and gun, and pick 
and shovel. It’s awfully presumptuous—but I want you 
to know, and somehow this day and place seemed—just 
right.” 

The little fire blazed cheerily; the tiny plume of smoke 
curled up and the odour of the pine knots that Manville 
placed upon the embers was delicious. 

“Hungry, Mrs. Braintree?” 

“Horribly, Mr. Manville.” 

“Like cold chicken with hot coffee?” 

“I am acquainted with Barry’s food, Mr. Manville.” 

“Barry wanted to come—but I firmly refused.” 

“He knew?” Rose-Ann felt a quick sense of being re¬ 
leased from a dark spell. 

“Of course. He asked me to bring you back to the house 
for tea. He’ll be home at four. That Torch Light of his 
will be the end of him if he does not look out. 

“Here’s some Scotch scones, Mrs. Braintree.” 

“My pet breadstuff, Mr. Manville. Excuse me for speak¬ 
ing with my mouth full, but it will probably be full for some 
time.” 



180 THE TENTH WOMAN 

All barriers were down. Rose-Ann was in the open and 
—safe. 

“I declare,” she said presently, and her face was a thing 
to remember, “we are like two funny pioneers. It’s like 
looking at a long-past scene through the big end of an opera 
glass.” 

“Yes,” Manville was kneeling beside the fire, delicately 
poising a sliver of bacon over the blaze; “looking through 
that end of the glass gives you the big in the little, instead 
of the other way about. 

“Pioneers!” He repeated the word as if the idea pleased 
him. He deftly toasted the bacon and flipped it on the 
bread; he laughed a good deal, as if he were so filled with 
enjoyment that it bubbled up as the coffee, hung over the 
blaze, was doing. Presently, seeing that Rose-Ann was well 
provided for, he sat down with his own paper plate, and, with 
the frank appetite of a hungry man, ate appreciatively. 

“And you are really going away soon?” asked Rose-Ann. 
She had finished her meal and now got up and waited upon 
Manville in the pretty offhand way that he remembered as 
being so charming in her own house. Her service, inter¬ 
mittent and irregular, seemed to be her chief pleasure in 
entertaining. 

“Yes—soon.” It was time now to light his pipe and 
luxuriate. Manville stretched his legs to the red embers and 
leaned back against a tree. Rose-Ann returned to her log 
and spread her hands to the fire. 

“I shall miss you. We all will. Barry will be disconso¬ 
late.” 

“Be good to Barry.” Manville let his eyes rest on 
Rose-Ann’s bent head. 

“Yes, for he is so good to us all.” 

“He is a lonely man.” Manville seemed musing. 

“Yes. I know what you mean. He’s like the man in the 
dungeon-of-the-little-door. People could get in to him, but 
he was too big to get out.” 

“That’s good.” Manville nodded. “I wonder why a 
fellow like Compton hasn’t dug himself out?” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


181 


There was no answer to that, and a silence such as only the 
heart of the winter woods knows enveloped them like a magic 
that was luring them from reality. 

“And about that time between your first and second 
visit to the West ?” 

Rose-Ann spoke as if conversation had naturally led up to 
the question. 

The smoke from his pipe clouded Manville’s face—he 
gazed at the woman across the fire through narrowed eyes. 
Yes; it was like looking through the large end of the opera 
glass! 

The big in the little! Concentrated all. And when Eric 
Manville recalled later that hour in the woods, he knew that 
neither he nor Rose-Ann was what life had made them; 
but were certain elements, extracted from themselves, and 
crowded into that one brief moment. 

“How wonderful you are with that red glow on your face, 
and the whiteness all about you. You seem like something 
being warmed into life and reality—Rose-Ann.” 

Rose-Ann did not stir. She heard her name upon Man- 
ville’s lips with no shock of surprise or resentment. Had 
the man near her made a move in her direction every sense 
would have sprung to duty. As it was he seemed a voice, 
or rather, an echo of a voice far, far distant. 

Again followed that vibrant silence. And then: 

“Queer, isn’t it, how we want some people to know more of 
us than we permit others to know? I think we only care to 
give ourselves away to them whom we can trust.” 

“Thank you,” the words reached Manville weighted with 
assurance. 

“And when one tries to tell what I want to tell you it 
would seem useless unless another really understands—with¬ 
out the actual telling.” 

“Yes.” Rose-Ann bent forward and added a handful of 
dead leaves to the fire which was glowing ruddily like a small 
warm heart in its setting of snow. When she had added the 
mite to the embers, she folded her hands in a little patient way 
upon her lap and raised her face bravely with that smile upon 


182 THE TENTH WOMAN 

her lips that called forth tenderness from them who loved 
her. 

“Go on!” she said with a friendly nod of her head; “I’m 
quite ready.” 

Through the smoke Manville again regarded her and he 
suddenly felt years younger; felt as one feels who has regained 
faith in what he believed was lost; as a child might who, 
waking from a bad dream, sees the familiar scenes. 

“You see, I was one of the people who managed to keep 
my vision while I kept pace with my kind. Some are like 
that, you know. 

“I did the usual stunts: college, travel, and the gun and rod 
trick. I always was one of my crowd—at least I thought I 
was, and I suppose I put up a good bluff for I was not resented 
until I was at last found out. 

“Please do not get the idea that I ever thought myself 
better than my kind, Rose-Ann. I never did, and I soon 
proved myself less than they. They, at least, had the 
courage of their convictions and squared themselves all 
along the line. 

“Of course, in due time I was expected to settle down. 
It was when business and I met face to face that the tug 
came. I had, before, enjoyed the results of business: had 
believed that my family traditions had kept business, as far 
as we were concerned, clean and upright. 

“I hadn’t done much thinking on any subject, but my 
education and keenness for knowing things had equipped me 
with a good working principle, but it and I were different . 
That was the cursed thing—our difference. It had nothing 
to do with good or bad, if you can understand; the being 
different was the unpardonable sin.” 

Rose-Ann breathed quick and hard as one does who nears 
the goal. She did understand—oh! how keenly. 

“My family line is wool,” Manville continued. “The 
biggest and best firm in the state, though my particular 
branch has died out—and I refused to let them use my 
name—they offered a pretty sum for it, too. 

“There’s no need of going into details, Rose-Ann; it’s 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


183 

childishly simple when reduced to a common factor. My 
father was living at the time. He was a man to whom I 
looked up—next to the orthodox God that had come down 
to me with my inheritance. The strange thing about it was, 
I had an honest belief in both my God and my father. I 
thought they were real. 

“When I was taken into the secrets of the firm I asked a 
few crude questions. In short, I wanted to see, not only 
the wheels go round, but what made them go round. I 
got to wondering why the working part of the concern had 
been suddenly uprooted and taken to the South. I was 
side-tracked at that point—but I went South before I 
would accept the flattering offer that had been made to 
me. 

“It was there that my ‘difference’ came to the surface. I 
admit I was something of a fool, and as ignorant of many 
things as any young fellow could well have been; but I 
realized with a sudden horror that unless I could throttle 
what then I did not want to throttle, I could never make my 
self-respect gibe with my business career. 

“When I looked upon conditions in the South which my 
father, with his New England integrity, was responsible for, 
something happened to me. 

“I went North and had it out with my father. I tried to 
make him see my point. I did not, at first, lose my faith 
in him for I believed he was not in close touch with the lower 
end of the business. I offered my services as go-between; 
a new link that would clean up certain things. Like all 
young fools I believed I had a mission. 

“It was then that I realized that my father recognized my 
difference. He did not attempt to understand my point of 
view; to weigh it justly—he meant to kill the ‘difference/ 
I was handed out the usual response—‘taint’ and ‘danger¬ 
ous element/ I was arraigned as a sentimentalist and a 
dreamer. 

“In that I dared doubt the already proved, the hard 
common sense of men whose integrity could not be ques¬ 
tioned, I proclaimed myself an incompetent. 


184 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“In short, I had nothing to offer or add to the business. 
The ‘difference’ I grimly held to was a menace. 

“I was all wrong in what I next did. I have seen that 
many a time. I should have stuck and proved myself. In¬ 
stead, I flung out an ugly remark or two about fallen gods and 
fathers and turned to the only other thing left to me. Love. 
I was in love, of course. My sort would be bound to be in 
love. I had early erected an altar and bowed down before 
it, had laid upon it many a sacrifice of temptation, overcome 
in its name. Oh! I was the usual kind. The lure of the 
young-rich was ever present—I had fought it through many 
a black hour; but when I found the girl I loved and en¬ 
shrined her, I thanked my one-time God for every hard-won 
battle. 

“She was divine. At least I thought so, and to her I went 
after my business encounter. It was no question of money. 
She and I belonged to the class that has had money for so 
many generations that they can afford to regard it as they 
do their breath—something necessary to keep them going. 

“No, she and I were independent so far as money went. 
I wanted her to prove to me that my ‘difference’ was hers, 
also. That she and I would take our future in our own hands 
and prove the thing that was scouted.” 

At this Manville tossed his pipe aside and laughed. The 
sound was not pleasant; it hurt Rose-Ann. 

“Don’t!” she pleaded, and there were tears in her eyes. 
“Don’t! Tell me—why did she not—go with you?” 

Rose-Ann knew that that other woman had failed. She 
would, of course. But—why? 

“She was afraid of my ‘difference,’ Rose-Ann. Absolutely 
terrified by it. She was body and soul of the clan—I saw it 
then. She looked at me with wide, frightened eyes. I was 
menacing all that she held sacred. I was asking her to go out 
into a wilderness. And I called that love.” 

“And—then?” Rose-Ann rose and walked around the 
little dead fire and stood near Manville. “And then?” 

“Then? Why, I proved myself a fool. Gave the game 
away. Well, I went to England. Somehow I had enough 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


185 

decency left to get out of sight while I made an ass of myself. 
When a fellow like me loses his God and his idols all at one 
blow he either rises up and bares his head for the next at¬ 
tack or he turns tail and makes for hell. 

“ I was well on the latter course when—Barry gripped me.” 

“Barry—our Barry!” Rose-Ann’s eyes were shining 
through the mist of tears. 

“Our Barry. He didn’t talk much. He acted as if 
nothing was out of the way. Acted as if seeing a young fool 
trying to attract attention was a common enough sight. He 
made me feel cheap; but he also made me understand that he 
respected my ‘difference.’ 

“He took me to his home—his mother had known my 
people once. His mother was wonderful. I imagine she had 
known life at close quarters and was almost through with 
it. She seemed to me then as if she were making the most 
of her little time. 

“She and Barry got me. I couldn’t fail them. They 
expected the decent thing of me because I had honour left! 
I had forgot that. It was my last possession. 

“They crammed me down people’s throats—the right 
kind of people. And then when I was able to stand alone, 
Barry urged me to go back home. 

“Home! Good Lord—it had crumbled. My father had 
died and—the girl had married. 

“Still Barry pleaded with me to go back to—my country 
and give what I believed I had to give—to it. 

“And so I came back with my pick-axe and shovel; went 
to that part of my country that is still in the making, and I 
pitched in. I have hewed a place for myself out of its 
rocks; and as I hewed, I saved my soul and fixed a place 
for that. I worked out some of my own ideas, too. Proved 
them.” 

The expression of the conqueror spread over Manville’s 
face. He sprang to his feet and stood beside Rose-Ann. 
She trembled as she looked at him. 

“Rose-Ann!” And at that moment reality dropped from 
them both. All that they were was merged in what they 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


186 

might have been had the hidden strain in both been left to 
find its way down the years. 

“Rose-Ann, suppose you had been that other! What— 
pioneers we would have been. My God!” 

Manville reached toward Rose-Ann and she, reaching 
toward him, found her hands in his: felt his lips on hers. 
The touch roused them as the call of the hypnotist might. 
They came back! 

“Oh!—why have you told me this?” Rose-Ann was as 
white as the snow above her. 

For a moment Manville gazed at her, perplexed and 
bewildered, as he might have at a stranger. 

“Because, Rose-Ann, there may come a time when you 
will be glad I have told you. The knowledge may help you 
to keep your faith. You have given back to me my faith. 
I wanted to do something for you. It was all I could give in 
return—this poor story of mine.” The kiss lay silent be¬ 
tween them! 

“I—must—go!” Rose-Ann started, for the melting 
snow fell like teardrops on her face. 

“And so must I, Rose-Ann.” 

And now Manville held out his hands again toward her 
with frank simplicity. 

“I wish you could tell me that you understand,” he said 
in a tone that no woman fails to trust. “I believe—you do!” 

“I—do, Eric Manville. And—I thank you!” 

They were safe. Safe for the future, whatever it might be. 

And that night Manville had his good-bye talk with 
Compton. 

Rose-Ann had not returned for tea and the two men had 
dined alone. 

Later they grew confidential; grew closer together than 
they had ever been; but Manville could not tell Compton 
the real reasons for his sudden departure. 

“Old man, Eve about won out. There are only two or 
three points to cover, and then I can have done with what 
must seem cheap theatricals to you. If it had been my 
business alone, it would have been different, but when I 


THE TENTH WOMAN 187 

next see you—and you are coming out to my ranch, remember 
—we’ll rake the whole thing fore and aft.” 

“You’re all right, Manville. You’ve given me a new 
lease of life.” Then: 

“Have you said your farewells?” 

“To Mrs. Braintree. Yes, and when you sift it down, 
Compton, Mrs. Braintree is about all—isn’t she?” 

“She is,” Compton smiled happily; “she’s the tenth 
woman in the making, Eric. Nine women out of ten, you 
know, we can estimate and deal with—it’s the tenth that we 
are up against, I fancy. That is why Rose-Ann Braintree 
interests me. 

“Had she married unhappily-” But Compton never 

finished that sentence. 



CHAPTER XV 


I T WOULD almost seem that one should take no chances 
with fate, for it avails itself of every loose end. 

Had Manville frankly told Compton the evening of 
the day when he and Rose-Ann had had the trip back to 
their beginnings, that he was going abroad instead of to the 
West, much might have been saved. 

To a certain extent Manville’s activities were necessarily 
secret, but he could have vouchsafed that much information. 

As a matter of fact he had a report to make to his partner 
in England; there would be, possibly, months of important 
business and then, if all went well, a trip to South Africa that 
would take an uncertain length of time and certainly it 
gave no opportunity for explanation. There was a man 
in the south of Africa that Manville and his English backer 
wanted for the Western mines. But he would have to be 
angled for and it was most vital to carry on the operations 
unobserved. Any slip might give an opening for others to 
wedge in and muddle, if they did not ruin, the whole 
scheme. 

What Manville did say, however, led Compton to think, 
afterward, that he was bound for the West at once. 

With the aversion that most men have for scenes, Compton 
and jVlanville bade each other good-night at last, feeling 
confident that it was good-bye. 

At breakfast the following morning Cleaver handed Comp¬ 
ton a note. He had expected something of the kind and 
merely looked across the table at Manville’s vacant chair, 
and a wave of loneliness swept over him. 

However, once breakfast was over, Compton set forth to 
smooth the edges of his guest’s abrupt departure. 

Prudence Townsend received the explanation with raised 
188 


THE TENTH WOMAN 189 

brows. She was giving a dinner party for Manville and she 
resented the break in her plans. 

Trevall, too, was not easily appeased. 

“With no offence to you, Compton,” he said, “I feel that 
Manville should have given me another opportunity to 
speak to him—on business. I’ve been looking up those 
mines of his out West—I was prepared to make a proposition 
to him. ,, 

“I know nothing of his business affairs,” Compton re¬ 
plied, “and I can only say that while Manville’s manners 
may be questioned, his good heart cannot be. Perhaps you 
can carry on your negotiations by mail, Trevall. You’ll be 
able to locate him easily.” 

Rose-Ann comforted Compton. 

“He said good-bye to me, Barry,” she explained with that 
reaching-out look in her eyes that always touched Compton’s 
quick sympathies; “but he did not say where he was going.” 

“Home, Rose-Ann,” Compton replied. “Back West, you 
know.” 

“We’ll miss him terribly, Barry. He was something new 
and stirring. It’s queer, thinking of him he seems like a—a 
passer-by. I don’t know, even, where he lives!” 

“His address, Rose-Ann, makes one think it might be a 
joke. The Far West speaks in parables. His ranch is the 
Lone Two. Tim’s Corners, Colorado, is his post office.” 

Rose-Ann threw her head back and laughed. She was 
standing on Compton’s east porch and the drippings of the 
melting snow from the roof was like music. 

“I do not wonder he kept that address to himself, Barry. 
It is too, too trifling.” 

Rose-Ann was in high spirits. She felt as if she had 
escaped from something that might have wrecked her, had it 
not carried her to safer and surer holdings. That perilous 
hour in the woods was already a tender, sacred memory. 
She knew, now, she felt, what that strain in her really was. 
It had done poor Aunt Theodora to death, but it had opened 
life to Rose-Ann. When one knows his weakness, knows how 
it can, if given way to, control all the real things of life, one 


190 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


can tackle it. It is the not knowing that counts. A lesser 

man than Manville-But at this Rose-Ann drew herself 

up proudly. 

Of course, had Manville misunderstood—but he had not. 
And once back in her own home Rose-Ann had counted her 
blessings and looked upon her husband with glad eyes. She 
must, she had vowed, lay herself open to him. So long as he 
felt that he must explain her to any one there was danger. 
And now she knew what the danger was. He had been 
right—and how he had trusted her! How loyal and fine he 
was. Manville, being what he was, made it easy for her to 
reveal herself to him, but she must tell Braintree all about it. 

“We’ll never look upon his like again, Barry,” she said 
presently, regarding Compton with shining eyes. 

“Oh! I don’t know. I am going out to him, Rose-Ann, 
next summer perhaps, or the one after. We, you and I, may 
persuade Braintree to join us—it would be great sport.” 

“Yes; and Father and Prue, Albert and little Faith—a 
family party. Oh! Barry, when one marries it isn’t so 
easy—to plan.” 

After that things slipped back into the old grooves. 

Affairs in Essex were bubbling to such an extent that both 
Compton and Conklin knew that their combined efforts to 
keep the lid down were growing less effective day by day. 

Brady was on a scent of his own. 

“Double crossing! damn them,” he reiterated at the Mill 
Tavern. 

“That’s good enough for talk,” one of the younger men 
flung back at him, “but you’ve got ter have the goods to 
prove it to me. Conklin is standing pat like all the rest of his 
breed; he ain’t going ter take his foot off the line. But you’ve 
got to make us see that Compton ain’t square. What he’s 
trying ter do—I take it—is to talk the old man over. Silk- 
stocking dudes like Compton are heavy with the gab and 
have great faith in it. Compton’s square—I’ll bet my last 
cent on that.” 

“I’ll show you my goods, yet,” Brady replied. “ Yer right 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


191 

about the gab, though. God! ter hear him use words about 
this here Tavern and the rights of American men. I bet 
he has his locker stocked—take it from me, his kind always 
has. Too good for trolley cars, too clean for taverns—but 
holy smoke! they have motors and cellars, damn ’em! All 
they want us for—is work! more work! When we’re sober, 
they get more out of us. When we strike, we strike soft—if 
we’re sober. Hell!” 

And then—it was six weeks after Manville’s abrupt de¬ 
parture—several brain-racking things occurred in Essex and 
Middle Essex. 

The first took place in Rose-Ann’s house. 

It was a warm June evening and Rose-Ann was in the swing 
couch on the western porch. The sunset was most beautiful 
and it made her think of some descriptions Manville had 
given of sunsets out West where there was nothing to limit 
the splendour. She had been thinking often of Manville 
lately; wondering why she could not tell her husband about 
him; for the intimate talk had never, yet, taken place. 

“Billy,” she called, “do come here—the day’s going down 
in glory, all right.” 

“In a few minutes, dear.” 

Braintree was at his desk in the small room off the living 
room. He spent hours there almost nightly—figuring; 
figuring. There were drawers of folded papers all filled with 
tiny figures—valuable only to himself—and they made 
Rose-Ann’s heart ache. 

“Hours wasted,” she once said to Braintree. 

He had looked at her almost angrily. 

“You must leave that to my judgment,” he replied loftily. 
“Why, my dear, I can tell accurately where every dollar of 
my money has gone since I left High School.” 

“Dear Lord! forgive him, he knows not what he’s done,” 
Rose-Ann flung back flippantly while Braintree’s jaw set. 

“It’s good one of us is practical,” he said finally. 

“The sunset won’t wait, Billy,” Rose-Ann called now. 
“It’s that kind of a sunset.” 

So absorbed was the girl that she did not speak again, nor 


192 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


take her eyes from the glowing colour. She watched the 
gold tremble and die; she saw the purple rise up from the 
marshes and, as though wrapping a pall over the blessed 
brightness, shut it away. The stars came out brilliantly— 
near stars, for the atmosphere was exquisitely clear. Then, 
suddenly, in a voice Rose-Ann hardly recognized, Braintree 
called: 

“Rose-Ann, come here!” 

She almost fell from the hammock; she thought he was 
ill—she ran into the house with her face pale and her eyes 
wide. Braintree interpreted her panic by his own under¬ 
standing of the situation. 

He sat in his swivel chair in much the same way as he 
might have sat upon a boulder—nothing swung or twisted 
under Braintree unless he willed it to do so. He had Rose- 
Ann’s check books in his hands. 

“Sit down, my dear,” he said in a commanding tone. 

Rose-Ann recognized her bank books. The one of the 
Essex Bank and the other—of the Boston Bank. 

“I prefer to stand, Billy,” she said calmly. 

“Then close the door, I do not care to have the maid-” 

“Maggie’s gone to a dance. You can speak out.” Rose- 
Ann was tense. 

“This is your bank book, my dear.” Braintree offered the 
Boston book for inspection as though it were “Exhibit A.” 

“So I see; but I don’t see why it interests you, Billy.” 
There was a flush of anger in Rose-Ann’s face. 

“I will not go into that, my dear, but perhaps you will 
explain why you have two bank accounts.” 

“I will not, Billy. I have always told you that my bank 
book was my private property; it is—it was Mother’s money, 
you know. I would have felt different had it been our 
money.” 

“We should have a common fund, Rose-Ann. I have 
always felt this. I am convinced now. As I share every¬ 
thing with you, so you should share everything with me— 
that is what true marriage means. It would have prevented 
just what has occurred.” 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


i 93 

At that instant something happened that could never be 
explained, nor properly understood. 

As had been the case with Rose-Ann and Manville in the 
woods, so it now was with Rose-Ann and Braintree. 

Emotions and deep-rooted prejudices which had lain 
dormant were, in a measure, detached from all else. They 
sprang to life when touched by the spark—the mere spark— 
of what both recognized as a menace to what each held as a 
divine right. 

It was an instant when only complete sympathy could 
have controlled the situation and that was precisely what 
was lacking. 

“I am her husband. I am responsible for her!” 

Against that Braintree pressed, even while his love pleaded 
for the white-faced girl opposite. 

“I have not been quite true.” The thought of the kiss 
flashed across Rose-Ann’s hot brain. “But he has no right 
to take this stand with me. Until he recognizes that, I will 
not explain. He may think what he chooses. Judge me first, 
if he wants to.” 

Like most sunny-natured people, Rose-Ann’s dashes of 
passion were blinding and took on the quality that makes 
persecution easier to bear than surrender. 

The woman in her seemed to rise and envelop the 
girl of her. Braintree noted the change and wrongly inter¬ 
preted it. They were clinched now, he and she, and so pite¬ 
ous a thing had brought about the inevitable! 

“Billy, your money is not mine in the sense that you want 
to control mine, and you know it!” 

Braintree’s glance darkened. 

“Explain yourself,” was all that he said. 

“You are generous, I grant. You give and give where 
you feel justified in giving. Would you give to me if you 
thought I would spend it—say, foolishly?” 

“Certainly not. I recognize responsibility, Rose-Ann.” 

“Exactly. But you would feel quite at liberty to invest 
the money that you say is equally mine and yours?” 

“Certainly. Using my best judgment for us both.” 


194 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“But can you not see, Billy, that that something which 
permits you to feel as you do is what I prize, too? The 
right to—to, well! spend foolishly—or to spend as you might 
not approve? I could not think of doing it with your money, 
and it is more yours than mine, no matter what you say. 
That something makes it so. It is the something which I— 
defend. The money Mother left to me—that is my own!” 

It was not anger alone that shook Rose-Ann’s voice but 
the baffled sense of injustice that the weaker feels when the 
stronger plays upon him. It was what had caught and con¬ 
quered Faith Trevall. It rose gauntly now. 

“It's the feeling about the money that matters, Billy,” 
Rose-Ann repeated slowly. 

Had Braintree spoken just then he would have emitted 
one word: “Twaddle.” 

But he honestly strove to deal justly with the situation. 
He was seriously concerned. Doubt of his wife had not 
quite entered in, but it was pressing against the portals. 
With a nature like his, so free of complications, it was difficult 
to deal with abstractions. 

“I agree, Rose-Ann,” he said presently and gently—“and 
I do wish that you would sit down, my dear—that your 
mother’s money, accounted for by this book”—Braintree 
held forth the Essex book—“is your own, since you feel 
justified in your rather sweeping assertions. But this”— 
and here Braintree held forth “ Exhibit A” again. 

Rose-Ann, at this, sat down across the room from her 
husband. 

Every fibre of her being was in revolt, but her primitive 
honesty, ever at the surging moment, gave credit due Brain¬ 
tree. She had opened the Boston account with the money 
earned from the writing about which she had not dared con¬ 
fess. Compton had done some investing for her and the 
total was, considered from Braintree’s viewpoint, rather 
staggering. Innocence may, when beaten to the wall, have 
all the appearance of guilt until it rights itself, but innocence 
that has deliberately cloaked itself with a disguise has the 
bravado of the desperado. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


195 


“I am waiting for your explanation, Rose-Ann.” 

A ribald imp of the perverse leaped to Rose-Ann’s undoing. 

“There ain’t going to be no explanation, Billy,” she said, 
and breathed freer. She had, unwittingly, cut herself 
loose from the tenderness that might have reached forth, had 
Braintree realized the real emotion that drove her on to the 
rocks; had seen in her a sense of the gravity of the moment! 

Braintree’s gaze dropped from the sweet, mocking face 
of his wife to the damaging figures in the Boston book. 

“I want my bank books, Billy. Pass them here,” Rose- 
Ann reached across the table. “I’m not going to explain 
anything. I don’t grant your right to exact an explanation. 
You doubt me and I find I cannot speak openly to you. Had 
you shown a different spirit I would have-” 

“You are adopting the tone and excuse of—of guilt, Rose- 
Ann.” 

This was a mad thing for Braintree to say. He saw his 
mistake. He had, in his first statement, confined himself 
merely to bald figures, but he realized that Rose-Ann was 
interpreting it in the widest sense. He hesitated, wanted to 
justify himself, but Rose-Ann, like a living flame, sprang to 
her feet. 

“Do be reasonable, my dear!” Braintree went as far as 
that. 

“Reasonable? I am going to be reasonable, Billy, so 
reasonable that you’ll regret what you have said and done to 
the last day of your life. 

“I understand now. It is the same old curse. The curse 
that crushed my mother, that makes women look as if they 
were hunted—the New England curse, that makes some men 
assume a power over women and which some women are too 
weak to resent. 

“I felt it in you—but I thought”—the hurried words 
faltered; a sob shook them—“I thought love might—help us. 
But I, too, have the curse in me—I do not want to control 
others but I will control myself and what I believe are my 
rights.” 

“Rose-Ann! Do you forget that you are my wife? That 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


196 

you have obligations and responsibilities? Have you no 
shame to so fling your ingratitude and loss of self-respect 
in my face? Were all your wicked accusations true you still 
have your duty.” 

And then Rose-Ann laughed. Laughed as Aunt Theo¬ 
dora had done that night when she called back her warning. 
Braintree was startled by the sound. The wildness of it 
reached where all else had failed. He sought to soothe the 
girl whose whole appearance had undergone a change. 

“My dear, my dear! I do not claim what you call my 
rights for myself, but for your protection. While I felt that 
I had your confidence I permitted what I now see was folly. 
Your association with Compton, a man whose ideals are 
radical and dangerous; your association with that Club of 
his and your—your intimacy with his friend; I have not 
taken the stand that I should have for your protection. Can 
you not see this, Rose-Ann?” 

There was tragedy in Braintree’s voice. He felt that 
unless Rose-Ann did see, he must put on the screws and he was 
young enough; enough in love to make that a cruel alterna¬ 
tive, but the traditions were closing in upon him like an 
army of supporters. 

All that Rose-Ann saw was the last trench and—she fled to 
it! 

“I want my bank books, Billy,” she said quietly. 

“You leave me, then, only one conclusion, Rose-Ann.” 
But Braintree withdrew the books. 

“I am not leaving you any—you can take what you choose 
in the line of conclusions. Billy, I want those books! Why 
can you not see, Billy Braintree, that if I put myself in your 
power now, on your terms, I would never be free again as 
long as I lived?” 

Rose-Ann’s face was livid, and with a sudden lurch for¬ 
ward she snatched the bank books from Braintree and held 
them behind her. 

She wanted to laugh; to run; the whole scene had degen¬ 
erated into the cheap-comic. When the madness was over 
she and Braintree would be ashamed of it. That was an 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


197 

underlying thought. But in that moment Braintree sprang 
to his feet and crossed to Rose-Ann. The iron in him became 
as molten lead, it filled his brain; congealed and left no mercy. 

“Give me those books, Rose-Ann. I see things are far, 
far worse than I suspected.” 

“I will not give them to you!” 

A madness overcame Braintree, but he and his kind 
always called it by another and loftier name. 

He gripped Rose-Ann’s arms above the elbows. (The 
slim, pretty arms bore the marks for several days.) He did 
not relent even when he felt the delicate flesh under the 
pressure. 

“I must save you from yourself,” he whispered. “Will 
you give me those books before I resort to*-” 

“I will not, Billy.” Rose-Ann stiffened under the cruel 
hold upon her. “And if you take them by brute force— 
I will go to—to Barry Compton to-night!” 

As if she had physically overpowered him, Braintree 
released her. 

“I see!” he muttered. “I see. You have outraged the 
freedom given you, you have——” 

But Rose-Ann stopped him by a quick cry. 

“Oh! don’t. Are you crazy?” she said. “And who has a 
right to give me freedom? Who, but God? I understand. 
Women must barter for it; sell themselves for the counter¬ 
feit, or do what I mean to do—take it!” 

Braintree, aghast, listened to the fierce, low-spoken words, 
but heard only the interpretation he put upon them. What 
he heard became an ugly, misshapen thought that burnt 
its meaning on his face. 

Rose-Ann understood and, in horror, stepped away from 
him. She was too spent to weigh any emotion now. With 
her faith and love trampled, she regarded herself merely as a 
weapon with which to hurt Braintree. Even in that breathless 
moment she did not forget the weak spot in the armour of her 
race. 

Through, and by herself, as Braintree’s wife could she deal 
her blow, and of herself—little, sorely driven Rose-Ann—she 




THE TENTH WOMAN 


198 

thought not at all. She was but a dagger in the grip of Fate. 
Her arms ached and burned. Braintree’s hateful, doubting 
eyes drove her on. 

“I am going to leave you!” Something in her heard the 
words, but that other self of her did not flinch. “I am— 
going to-” 

“Compton?” Braintree breathed the name. 

He was thoroughly convinced now, as a more worldly wise 
man would not have been, of the gravity of the situation; its 
coarser aspect. 

For so austere a man as he—a man who had reached his 
conclusions of sex through words, rather than experiences; 
whose passions and weaknesses had always mistaken curiosity 
for temptation—he saw but one grim fact, and he felt justi¬ 
fied in embodying the ugly thing in a dangerous suggestion. 

“You—are going to—him? You-” 

Rose-Ann, bewildered and desperate, slowly stepped back; 
she reached the door before she spoke. Then the devil in her 
drove her to her own cruel end. 

“No. I am going to Eric Manville.” She breathed the 
name rather than spoke it. 

She realized that she must save Barry even while she dealt 
Braintree the blow. 

He retreated before it and then, as clearly as though 
physically Braintree had closed a door upon her—Rose-Ann 
knew herself to be an outcast from him. 

Slowly, heavily she went upstairs. The bank books seemed 
to weigh like lead, but the bruises on her arms gave her sudden 
strength. She paused in the upper hall and—thought. She 
realized suddenly that she was thinking and that she had not 
been thinking for some time past. She had been saying things, 
doing things—but she had not thought. She must think. 
Something terrible had happened. It was like the little leak 
in a dam that had, at last, destroyed the dam. That barrier 
between her and Braintree was gone. A hideous accident had 
laid it waste, but at least they must find each other in the 
wreck; they were not dead! 

That quick, dangerous humour of Rose-Ann’s sprang to 




THE TENTH WOMAN 


199 


life. Already the affair looked funny; common and cheap. 
A squabble, only. 

“I’ll go to the guest room—but leave the door open.” 
Rose-Ann already was on the rebound; ready to forget and 
readjust; not abdicate—oh! no, but be—reasonable. 

The moonlight lay across the prettily decked bed. It 
would not do to disarrange the silk coverlid and rose pillows, 
so Rose-Ann went to the window and sank wearily down in a 
low chair; then she listened and waited! 

It took Braintree a full hour to regain his calm and dignity. 
At the end of that time he was quite himself; himself as he 
knew himself. The fact was, however, that Braintree had 
been stunned and was, to a certain extent, reacting as a body 
does whose brain has not recovered its proper force. He was 
incapable of functioning sanely. 

Of course it could not be true—the hideous thing about 
Rose-Ann! But something combated that. It was true! 
It could be nothing else but true! If she had deliberately 
and defiantly gone to such lengths, it must be true. What 
else could it be? Desperate means must be resorted to in 
order to safeguard the future. 

All that Braintree had heard and had been able to dis¬ 
count, in the past, glared accusingly at him now, as often the 
figures of long-past accounts had convincingly confronted 
him. 

Prudence, perhaps more than any one else, had under¬ 
mined Rose-Ann’s foundations. And Prudence had made 
few affirmations, certainly had never meant to be false to 
Rose-Ann. Her fears for her sister; her timid disapproval; 
her stories of Rose-Ann’s peculiarities and childish revolts, 
had gone deep in Braintree’s subconsciousness. The grim 
ancestor, Theodora, presently stalked. Braintree, after Rose- 
Ann’s quaint recital of her old aunt’s story, had gone to 
Prudence; Prudence had refused to repeat what she knew. 
The very reticence regarding Aunt Theodora became, now, an 
accusingly important factor. 

Braintree had deep-rooted beliefs in heredity. They 
amounted almost to ignorant superstitions. He was fright- 


200 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


ened. But, of course, both he and Rose-Ann, in anger, had 
said and done regrettable things. Braintree was prepared, 
when his wife came to her senses, to accept the position of a 
wronged but noble husband. He did not pose; the tragedy 
of his life and Rose-Ann’s was complete, but it was possible 
to hide and conquer the ugly fact—there must be no un¬ 
seemly scandal. Braintree believed the handling of the 
affair was at last in his own hands. Rose-Ann would, upon 
reflection, come to terms. 

Braintree did not look beyond the critical moment; did not 
imagine the bleak, haunted future. Nothing mattered but 
the saving of the broken idols—the patching together of the 
shattered bits. 

Marriage had not solved Rose-Ann’s problem. Her in¬ 
heritance had betrayed her. But marriage meant a mighty 
and conclusive thing to Braintree. “ Until death do you 
part” were not idle words to him. He was prepared to face 
the living death. 

But Braintree was discounting Rose-Ann’s absorbing 
passion for life; all life. Her life. 

By the window in the guest room the huddled figure was as 
still as if death had separated it from life. 

Vaguely, again, Rose-Ann began to realize the significance 
of what had occurred. With anger and resentment in 
abeyance she was able to disentangle the real issues from the 
false and deal with them. 

The absurdity and cheapness of the scene through which 
she and Braintree had passed took on grim dignity when 
viewed in its true proportions. All the bald difference that 
lay between them had been illumined by the flash of the 
sordid conflict of wills. 

It was bound to occur and Rose-Ann presently admitted 
the fact. With the admission her face, piteous and strained, 
grew graver and older. 

Never in her life had she more wanted or needed love, but 
never was she more determined to secure love on the right 
terms. 

She weighed, with heart-breaking sincerity, her side and 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


201 


Braintree’s of the question. Her eagerness for pleasure and 
liberty—well! she had been selfish and blind along that line, 
but the desires within her were but the starved expressions 
of others that had not been permitted a natural outlet. 

She had leaned too heavily upon love; even now she 
yearned to go downstairs and confess that to Braintree. But 
love must be served as well as serve. Rose-Ann admitted 
that, too. She had never forgot, as Prudence had suggested 
that she had, that she was a married woman; but she had 
overlooked the importance of respecting the ideals of others. 

Because of her cowardice in expressing herself freely, 
Rose-Ann’s conscience smote her hard. That was the rock 
about which her mother had warned her. She should have 
lived herself openly in the presence of her love; she should 
have permitted Braintree at least an opportunity of dealing 
with her true self and then no subterfuge would have been 
necessary; no blows in the dark would have been dealt. 

The hideous truth was that she was afraid of something 
in Braintree and he was equally afraid of something in her. 

They must drag that Something into the open; under¬ 
stand it; throttle it; kill it; or never, never could they be sure. 

The moonlight drifted across the pale, tired face of the 
girl—she was stern now with the iron that ran in her blood 
as it did in Braintree’s. The difference between them was— 
she yearned with a great and surging desire to understand; 
and Braintree believed, while he suffered, that he did under¬ 
stand and must not, for that very reason, show a moment’s 
weakness. 

“Why dared I not confide everything to Billy?” Rose- 
Ann flung this question to the soul of her; “why could I 
speak openly to Barry and Eric Manville and yet tremble 
before Billy?” 

She saw her mistakes, admitted them, but through them 
surged the Cause. Braintree would have disapproved of 
those articles in the Criticism. Well, Barry had disapproved, 
too, and Manville had shaken his head over them. Had she 
felt free to go to Braintree, and could she have depended 
upon his understanding, Rose-Ann acknowledged that she 


202 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


would have done anything to please him; would have given 
up the writing. In that she had wanted to do the articles, 
had been afraid to come out into the open with them, proved 
the wrong and the existence of that Something that lay be¬ 
tween her and Braintree; her father; Prudence and them 
who could make her suffer because she differed. 

Suddenly she remembered Manville! She and he were 
different. That was what set them apart—and together! 

She dreaded suffering; but she dreaded more the cause 
of suffering. It was that which she and Braintree must at¬ 
tack and—in the open! Her difference was not evil—she 
would not admit that. 

Then Rose-Ann dragged from the depths of her conscious¬ 
ness Braintree's attitude toward what was really her own. 
There, she felt, he was in the wrong. Had that Something 
not lain between them, she might have been glad to consult 
her husband at every turn as she had consulted Barry 
Compton. 

That was it—always she came back to it—the grim Some¬ 
thing that neither she nor Braintree understood and which she 
alone could not master. It had overcome her mother; had 
overcome many others—sad, bitter women in Middle Essex. 
At that torturing moment they rose in the girl's memory. 
They would not speak—not they! but in her hour of travail 
they stood silently near, bearing their mute testimony. 

“Oh! Billy, let us—understand!" Rose-Ann bent her 
weary head upon the window sill; “we can; we can—if we 
only dare,” 

And at that instant Braintree came up the stairs. Without 
pausing he passed to the bedroom across the hall, turned on 
the light and, after a tragic moment, closed the door! 

“Shutout!” Rose-Ann murmured. “Shutout!” 

Hope and youthful confidence were baffled. Rose-Ann 
for another terrible hour waited. Then she got up, aching 
and cold, and walked to the door of—their bedchamber. She 
listened. The even breathing of Braintree was like a poison 
that entered into her softened mood and turned it to one of 
positive dislike. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


203 


Her head lifted—she smiled; not the dear sunny smile but 
the smile behind which women hide what hurts them most. 

“I am not going to have my life ruined,” she promised 
herself, “ not as most women have theirs, anyway. Fm going 
to get what—what I can.” 

A dry sob escaped her. It frightened her into a stern 
resolve and she went back to the guest room. 

She must deny the softness and yearning—they must not 
betray her into a relation that could only end in worse misery. 
Rose-Ann had not escaped the inheritance from her father 
and in that hour it rose supreme over that of her mother. 

Again she took her place by the window and looked forth 
at the familiar scene with a sense of bidding it good-bye. 

The road lay under the moonlight, well kept and smooth 
—over that road Aunt Theodora had escaped! 

The memory rose sharp and clear cut. Rose-Ann under¬ 
stood, now, why Aunt Theodora went. 

And there stood the dun-coloured railroad station like the 
gateway—out! 

How had Aunt Theodora travelled ? Rose-Ann wondered 
about that; it had never occurred to her before. Ways were 
easier for women now. 

And Barry had said that women, often alone, travelled quite 
safely without comment. Poor Barry! how he would miss 
her and grieve for her—but his door would never close against 
her. When the time came for explanation he would under¬ 
stand and believe her. And she would write soon to him. 
She was about to do a thing most women would shrink from 
doing and she must keep her own vision sure. Not even 
Barry must share her responsibility. 

There was just one way to make others suffer as they had 
made her suffer. As for herself—what mattered? She was 
no longer loved or happy—but she was not going to be 
crushed. Barry would see her point by and by. 

She had money—Rose-Ann again heard that hard, dry 
sob that escaped from that part of her that still suffered as 
the drugged suffer. She would travel. It was quite safe. 
She was a married woman—Prudence need have no fear—she 


204 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


was never to forget that! If she could not have what she 
had chosen—love; home; she would—travel. 

If she went in her travels to where Eric Manville was— 
well! had she not a right to go? He would understand after 
he—saw her! She had hungered for the West ever since 
Barry, and later Manville, had described it. 

Rose-Ann trembled with excitement and presently ex¬ 
haustion overcame her and she flung herself upon the daintily 
made bed, her aching head buried in the rose pillow. 

It was nine o’clock when she awoke. The room was 
filled with sunshine and, feeling as if arousing from a bad 
dream, she sat up and looked about. The disordered bed! 
What had happened? And she was still dressed—but chilly, 
for she had had no covering over her. Then she looked at 
the door. Someone had closed it. 

Then Rose-Ann remembered. Braintree had passed the 
room, had seen her on the bed, and had closed the door and 
gone on—gone on! 

Could Rose-Ann have known the agony with which 
Braintree had looked upon her ere he closed that door as he 
might upon the dead, she could have been merciful. Had he 
drawn a cover over her chilled, unconscious body—she might 
have thrilled to the human thought; but the stark inhumanity 
and apparent hardness seemed to kill whatever spark of the 
old Rose-Ann that had survived. 

Quite calmly now the risen Rose-Ann walked across the 
hall to her bedroom—Braintree’s bedroom! She undressed, 
bathed, and then carefully re-dressed for out of doors. Then 
she went downstairs. Maggie had kept coffee hot and was 
making fresh toast. She came in from the kitchen and after 
wiping her hands on her apron, took a note from the side¬ 
board and handed it to Rose-Ann. 

“Himself left it,” she explained, and her eyes looked 
puzzled. 

My Dear, when you have come to your senses, I will be ready to 
talk to you. 

Of course we both have things to regret, but in the future there 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


205 

must be a complete understanding along certain lines that can only 
be reached after reflection and regained self-control. 

I have taken advantage of a business call to go at once to New 
York. You can reach me there at the Astor. 

William. 

Rose-Ann read and re-read the note and was subconsciously 
estimating how far she could get before Braintree had ter¬ 
minated his business. 

Finally she said to Maggie: 

“Mr. Braintree has been called away suddenly on business. 

I-” Rose-Ann hesitated at the lie she was about to tell—it 

seemed cowardly, in that Braintree, not she, would have to 
face its consequences. 

“I am going to—to follow him. You will take good care 
of everything, Maggie?” 

“Shure, mum.” 

“Perhaps Patsy will come and stay nights with you— 
or you can go to her.” 

How coolly she was planning for the time on ahead! 

An hour later she was in her little car and hurriedly set 
upon her own arrangements. 

In passing Compton’s place—she saw him pacing his gar¬ 
den. Aery rose to her lips but she stifled it. He was, she knew, 
counting with real joy the new bloom of crocuses and lilies— 
he worshipped in his garden. She must not disturb him. 

“Barry, Barry! Always I will see you so, dear—walking 
in your garden. Good-bye—dear, kind Barry. Good-bye 
until I come back!” 

After that hurting encounter fate seemed to deal more 
gently with Rose-Ann. She decided to close her account at 
the Essex Bank and she dreaded a possible meeting with her 
father; but when she reached the Bank Trevall was not in 
evidence. The cashier was a man well fitted for his post— 
he had no curiosity—but he had automatic ability. A 
depositor spoke and he acted. Acted with an assurance that 
proved how fully he controlled all the details of his depart¬ 
ment. 



206 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


During the few hours that she spent in Essex, Rose-Ann 
went to the Torch Light Club and half hoped that Compton 
would come, but he did not, and the memory of him in his 
garden was the one Rose-Ann carried away with her. 

She went back to her house at four o’clock, packed, and 
made her final arrangements with Maggie. 

“Have you spoken of my going away?” she asked, for she 
had half expected that her father or Prudence might com¬ 
plicate matters. 

“Tve not seen a soul, mum, since you left—barring the 
butcher boy—if you call him a soul, mum.” 

Maggie sniffed and Rose-Ann breathed more freely. Her 
confiding in Maggie earlier in the day had been a dangerous 
break. 

“I am going to take the last train in,” she explained to 
Maggie. 

Middle Essex, as far as its travelling population went, 
interpreted this as meaning the midnight train from Boston 
to any mystical point distant from the Hub. No one would 
go simply to Boston so late. 

“Nine-forty, mum?” 

“Yes, Maggie. Will you carry my bag for me to the sta¬ 
tion ?” 

After that there was the note to write to Braintree. Rose- 
Ann went to the small room where, the night before, she and 
Braintree had faced that miserable Something and been so 
sorely beaten by it. The atmosphere of the empty place 
struck a chill to her heart. It was like returning to a tangi¬ 
ble, brooding foe that but waited another opportunity to 
strike. 

But Rose-Ann was non-resistant. She had accepted 
what seemed to her the only terms offered. Surrender, 
absolute and complete, and then—consideration and the 
inevitable, or the refusal to permit any one, even in the name 
of Love, to dominate her life! She had chosen the latter. 

“Love!” breathed Rose-Ann sitting down in the swivel 
chair and turning on the electric light. 

Almost it seemed as if her position and Braintree’s were 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


207 


reversed. She was in the swivel chair meting out judgment, 
while he—well, he might be hidden in the shadow by the door 
through which the old Rose-Ann had retreated with her poor 
little booty—the bank books and her heavy heart the night 
before. 

“My dear, my dear!” she whispered as if to the shadow. 
“I cannot call that love—the cold thing you offer. It would 
kill me in the end—it is safer to go now.” 

Rose-Ann had lost the lust for revenge that had had part 
in her anger. She felt merely the impossibility of conforming 
to Braintree’s ideals, and unless his love was for her as she 
was, she could not accept it. 

“It wouldn't be safe , dear"; the tears were dropping on the 
sheet of paper under the small, hot hand. 

“No tear stains!” Rose-Ann tore the paper in shreds 
and took another sheet. 

“ 7 / wouldn't be safe , dear"; she began again and again rent 
the sheet. 

“7 have come to r.„y senses , Billy. I am going — West!" 

There were no tear stains on the third sheet. The words 
seemed to rise like a barricade or a line of protecting guards. 
They symbolized her desperate challenge against the subtle 
foe that would overpower her did she remain; but once the 
line of defence was established, Rose-Ann in retreat added: 
“had your love for me been greater than your worship of your 
ideas about right and justice — 7 would —” she meant to write 
“have died for you" —instead she concluded— i( have felt very 
different." 

She folded the paper, kissed it—and the kiss left no mark 
as tear stains had—put it in an envelope, and sealed it. 
Then she carried it upstairs, placed it in the handkerchief 
drawer of Braintree’s chiffonier and, at nine-forty, Rose-Ann, 
crumpled in a seat on the last train for Boston, felt as if she 
were attending her own old dead self to the grave she had dug 
for it. 

Three days later Braintree returned to his home. His 
heart was like a heavy, dull weight within him, but on his 
handsome young face there rested the expression that had 


208 THE TENTH WOMAN 

marked the men of his line when they had come to grips with 
duty. 

Braintree might show no mercy to a sinner, but he had 
gained this much—he felt no satisfaction in his victory over 
love and over the weakening power of love—toward a sinner. 
He was, for the first time in his life, backed against the wall. 
No thought of surrender entered into his calculations, but he 
did not know what to do next. So he simply braced. Rose- 
Ann had defied him; the conflict was to be more serious than 
he thought. 

“And herself didn’t come back with you?” This was 
Maggie’s amazed greeting. 

Braintree, on the instant, felt as a condemned man might 
feel who realized that the first bullet had not killed him. 

“No,” he said in a hard, clear voice. “Mrs. Braintree was 
not ready to return.” 

After that Braintree started on a search for a note. There 
would be one, of course. It was when he was in the bedroom 
at ten o’clock that he discovered the last words of Rose-Ann. 

To Braintree they were the last words. He read them 
three times and then stood, white and haggard, in the middle 
of the room. 

The blow had shattered everything. Pride, assurance; 
the last hope and gleam of faith. But it had done more—it 
had battered down the flintlike crystal through which Rose- 
Ann in her young love and vision had seen the real man that 
Braintree, at soul, was. Naked and bleeding from the 
splintered shield that had protected him, he staggered over to 
the bedside; knelt by it and with his head buried on the 
pillow upon which Rose-Ann’s dear head had lain in that 
past, past time, he groaned aloud. 


CHAPTER XVI 


C OMPTON dragged himself wearily up the slope to 
Braintree’s house. He was not bodily tired, but 
mentally he was exhausted. He had never had to do 
so difficult a task as that which he was about to undertake. 

The house was dark except for the light in the hall and in 
the living room. Maggie, looking solid and non-committal, 
let him in and awkwardly ushered him directly into Brain¬ 
tree’s presence. 

The evening was warm, but Braintree looked cool and self- 
possessed. The Transcript was in his hands—the Atlantic 
Monthly, freshly taken from its wrapper, near his arm. The 
insignificant details struck Braintree with humorous sharp¬ 
ness. Braintree had no appearance of a deserted and wronged 
husband. 

“Well, Compton,” he said, rising and drawing a chair 
forward for his guest, “I’ve been expecting you.” 

They both sat down. Compton was by far the more 
stricken-looking one. 

“I suppose you bring some news of Rose-Ann.” 

When Braintree spoke Compton started, for the tone of the 
voice betrayed him. 

“No, Braintree. Mr. Trevall stated the ugly fact to me, 
that is all I know.” Then Compton reached out a thin, 
trembling hand. 

“For God’s sake, Braintree,” he pleaded, “do not take it 
this way. Let us deal with the thing humanly.” 

“Exactly.” Braintree broke in. “But not theatrically, 
Compton. Before we go any further I wish to state my side 
of the case as clearly as I can, since Mr. Trevall has thought 
best to take you into our confidence.” 

“He naturally,” Compton said, “thought I might throw 
209 


210 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


some light on the trouble. Why, Braintree, the child did 
not come even to—to bid me good-bye. Things must have 
gone pretty hard with her.” 

Braintree winced but quietly continued: 

“As I was about to say in explanation, there had been a 
difference of opinion on certain subjects between Rose-Ann 
and me, but nothing that could possibly justify the course she 
has taken. I can only come to one of two conclusions. 
Either she is insane or, with her strange indifference to the 
rights of others, she believes she can exact what she wants by 
intimidating those who are acting for her best good. Rose- 
Ann is capable of going to dangerous extremes, Mr. Comp¬ 
ton ” 

When one is thoroughly frightened he is apt to circle in 
space before taking a definite course, and Compton circled 
now. 

“Suppose the former is the case?” he asked. “Have you 
started investigation ?” 

“No, I have the family to consider. I will cause no further 
scandal.” 

Somehow this statement had power to turn Compton to 
steel. He realized, in a flash, that Braintree had assumed 
the latter not the former supposition. He felt the hardness; 
the cool, calculating attitude from which Rose-Ann was 
fleeing—alone. 

“Of course”; Compton merely breathed the word. Then: 

“Braintree, as I see it, the slight misunderstanding that 
you refer to was not in any sense the thing that you, or Rose- 
Ann for that matter, regarded it. From the little that I 
know, from the little that she has told me in the past, I 
gathered the impression that under the trivial appearance of 
your disagreements you were both struggling for what is 
vital to you both and which neither of you could relinquish.” 

Braintree’s face hardened. 

“Go on!” he said quietly. 

“To voice Rose-Ann’s state of mind as I see it, I realize, 
is but to put it and her in the worst possible light. She was 
born, Braintree, with a horror of—of any one dominating 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


211 


her. I hate to say what I must; I know you will not agree, 
but she is expressing what her mother—what many women 
of her race and place—have suppressed. Anything that 
threatened what she abnormally feared would drive her to 
extremes that nine women out of ten would never dream of 
taking.” 

“All that you say, Compton,” and Braintree’s voice 
breaking in was like flint, “goes to prove how necessary it 
was that Rose-Ann, until she proved herself worthy, should 
have a firm and protecting hand over her. There was no 
ground for her state of mind.” 

“Or a guiding hand,” Compton suggested, ignoring the 
last part of Braintree’s speech; “or, better still—just a 
hand holding hers.” 

“This is rubbish, Compton. The sort of thing that has 
always fed the smouldering fire in the uncontrolled mind of 
Rose-Ann. I have long feared it; I hesitated to exert my 
control from weakness; not wisdom—until it was too late. 
Her father warned me.” 

“On the other hand”—Compton drew his breath in hard— 
“you’ve driven her!” 

“Where?” Braintree’s face was white as marble. In 
silence the two men confronted each other. 

“I do not know,” Compton said at last. He had been 
speaking figuratively; he realized that Braintree was speaking 
literally. 

“I did not know that you knew,” he added. 

“She has—gone West!” Braintree replied. 

“West? In heaven’s name, why?” Then, as a lurid 
light broke over the darkness: “Do you mean she has gone 
to—to Manville?” 

“I fear so!” 

“Fear so! In God’s name, can you say a thing like that 
without knowing?” Compton leaned forward in his chair, 
his eyes blazing. 

“She left a note stating that she was going West.” 

“What are you going to do about it, Braintree?” Comp¬ 
ton asked wretchedly. 


212 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“Do? Why, nothing. What is there for me to do?” 

“You are not going after her; you are not going to prove 
your love for her as well as your authority over her? Save 
the poor child from her folly?” 

“Certainly not! See here, Compton, if you and your kind 
believe what you are always protesting—why should any one 
try to thwart Rose-Ann at this stage of the affair? Why not 
let the, the personal expression—is that what you call it?—go 
to its legitimate conclusion?” Braintree’s voice again rang 
sharp with the suffering behind it. 

Compton got up wearily. 

“I still believe,” he said, “that if Rose-Ann could be con¬ 
vinced of your love, that in your love, not your desire for 
power over her—you have erred in your methods—things 
would straighten out, even now!” 

Another man might have laughed at this, but not Braintree. 
He arose also, and his white, handsome face was like a mask. 

“I—admit that I erred? Are you joking Compton? 
That’s poor taste at such a time. 

“No. You and I, apparently, have come to the same 
conclusion, though by different routes. I have not the 
slightest desire to govern the actions of Rose-Ann.” 

When Compton was again on the quiet, dark streets he 
reacted from the hold that Braintree’s presence and words 
had had upon him. He had been unimpressed by the hidden 
agony that he detected under Braintree’s calm; he had felt 
the cold reasoning, but now he was hot with anger. He 
stood still and swore a reviving and sustaining oath. He still 
was capable of admitting the justice of much that Braintree 
had said, but under, above, and around it there was that 
unbreakable, unbendable hardness that Rose-Ann, poor child, 
had beaten against since her marriage. 

Suddenly Compton hardened himself to Braintree’s 
rightness and saw only Rose-Ann’s pitiful folly; her great 
need. At first he felt that he must follow her; follow her to— 
Manville’s ranch. 

Then he reflected upon the uselessness of such a step. 
It would but add fuel to an already dangerous conflagration. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


213 


“ If-” But Compton repudiated the thought. He must 

wait. There were still Manville and Rose-Ann to hear. 

He entered his still and dimly lighted library; off some¬ 
where the maids were laughing and singing—nearer by, 
Cleaver was moving about in his quiet, orderly way. Comp¬ 
ton turned on more light and sat heavily down. How lonely, 
how dismayingly lonely, he felt. And, he reflected, this 
sense of loss, this state of nothing worth-while, must go on. 
The two for whom he cared most must face their undoing 
while he sat dumbly alone and—waited. This thought 
obsessed Compton, took his reserves, one by one. 

At midnight the maids had ceased their singing, Cleaver 
alone seemed to be in evidence. 

Then at twelve-thirty Compton stood up, haggard, 
worsted. The silent battle had worn him out. 

“ Cleaver!” he called. 

“Yes, sir!” Cleaver was at the door. 

“Bring-” 

“Now, sir! Let me call Mr. Conklin, sir!” 

“Cleaver, bring the—the bottles and keep away from the 
telephone, damn it! Tve had enough of this—tomfoolery. 
Mind now—I’ve given my orders.” 

Cleaver disappeared. He returned with the tray: bottles 
and glasses. Then he went out to prepare the room upstairs 
in the tower, but on his way there he telephoned for Conklin! 

Conklin and his directors were holding a secret session at 
Conklin’s house. There were also secret sessions being 
held at the Torch Light and at the Mill Tavern. It was a 
busy night in Essex with the three conferences behind closed 
doors. Conklin took up the receiver, listened, and then 
muttered—“all right” and jammed the receiver in place. 
He turned a red, perturbed face to his associates. 

“We’ll have to take this matter up early to-morrow,” he 
said abruptly. 

“That will be too late, Conklin. We’ve stood them off 

as long as they will bear it—it’s arbitration or-” the 

spokesman waited. 

“Hell! All right, then, it’s hell!” Conklin got up 




214 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


angrily. “Til make no further concessions. The whole 
damned mess—workers, and Compton’s gang—can fight it 
out. I’m through.” 

The men filed out into the darkness. A few minutes later 
Conklin strode after them and, silently entering his garage, 
started his big car, as noiselessly as possible, and turned it 
toward Middle Essex. 

Just as he put on speed the gentlemen from the Tavern 
Conference came forth, followed by a fragrance of mixed 
liquors and the heat and bad air they had been enjoying. 

“Who’s that breaking the speed laws?” one of the party 
asked as Conklin’s car dashed by. 

“Boys, take it from me, we better find out.” 

It was Brady who spoke and he had recognized the car. 
He was dangerously sober. 

“I’m telling you something. There’s been a confab up 
to the boss’s—I was wise ter that, and Compton wasn’t there 
—I made sure of that. The boss is tearing up to Middle 
Essex to report ter Compton. 

“Here, two or three of you come with me! The rest of 
yer go back and hang around until we find out what this 
means. Better hold the Torch Light open, too, until we get 
returns.” 

Brady with his picked men took to the highway—they 
were limited as to speed but they had no choice. It was too 
late to get a car. 

Conklin reached Compton’s in record time. He did not 
pause for polite details—the front door was open and he 
walked in. He broke into Compton’s presence like a dis¬ 
turbing and muddled dream. 

“Hello, Conklin,” Compton said. “How did you get 
here? Have a drink?” 

There was still enough brain power left to confuse Comp¬ 
ton; he couldn’t connect his ideas. 

Conklin sat down and drew the tray toward him. Compton 
stretched forth his hand; his eyes glared. 

“None of that!” he muttered, “don’t forget yourself—or 
that I am—master here.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


215 

“A hell of a master you are!’’ Conklin returned; “here 
or anywhere else. 

“See here, Compton, you’ve had all you’re going to get. 
Catch on?” 

There was a brief, futile struggle. Compton clutched the 
tray. Conklin gripped it. Then Compton pleaded: 

“For God’s sake, Conklin, just another glass * I swear-” 

Conklin eyed his man, sized up the situation, and de¬ 
liberately poured a small glass half full. This he pushed 
toward Compton. 

The room was stifling and, bearing the tray with him, 
Conklin went to the window opening to the drive and threw 
up the sash. Then he went back to the table. 

“Another, Conklin, be a—sport—another!” 

Surely this craven creature with his weak, sagging face 
could not be Compton. Gazing at him, Conklin saw the 
folly of reasoning; he felt, as he often did, the contempt of the 
strong for the weak; the triumph of the self-made over him 
who had had responsibility taken from him, but through it 
all and strengthened by these sentiments was a grosser 
thought—why not toss the poor creature to the dogs? Why 
not let those fools at the Club see who was their friend? 

Let them choose between their idol, shorn of his pitiful 
disguise; the idol who was misleading them—and him, their 
boss; their real stand-by? What was the use, anyway? He’d 
tried to save Compton—to what end? Conklin watched his 
prey. 

Presently he realized that he couldn’t do it! He no more 
could betray this pitiful creature who had once shared with 
him the secret places of his harassed soul than he could have 
betrayed the sacredest thing in life. 

The two men continued to stare at each other. Compton 
was smiling a weak, conciliatory smile; Conklin kept his grip 
upon the tray. 

In a few minutes, he knew, Compton would grow hazy; 
sleepy—then he and Cleaver would get him upstairs, turn 
the key on him, and face the following week as they had faced 
weeks before. 


2l6 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“Let’s have one more, Conklin, a good-night one, old 
man”; the voice was heavy. 

Conklin was about to call for Cleaver when a sound out¬ 
side startled him and stayed Compton’s pleading. They 
turned to the window—there stood Brady and his men! 

Conklin came to his senses first. 

“Well,” he said steadily, “what’s up?” 

Brady, the cards in his hands, was equal to the situation. 
He was almost dignified in his triumph. 

“Oh! that’s all right,” he replied. “I guess we all—all 
but him”—he nodded to Compton contemptuously—“know 
what’s up. The game’s up, boss. The damned rotten game. 
It’s one thing to turn a dog loose on a scent, boss, and another 
to call him off.” 

“Brady, shut up, confound you. You’re on the wrong 
scent, you fool.” 

“That’s to be proved.” Brady turned to his men. “Go 
down to the Club,” he commanded, “and get the crowd to 
the Torch Light. Tell ’em we’re coming.” Brady gave a 
deep laugh. 

When his men had departed, he spoke again. 

“Yer ain’t very hospitable,” he said, “but I can talk from 
here. Mr. Conklin, it’s up ter you—will you come down to 
the Torch Light and have an open explanation with the 
boys—or won’t you ?” 

Conklin never crossed a bridge in the dark without testing 
it. 

“What yer mean—open explanation?” he asked coolly. 

“Tell the boys what you’re using”— Brady cast a con¬ 
templative glance at Compton, “that—for!” 

The wide-spreading area that Brady’s words disclosed for 
the moment staggered Conklin. He was forced to concede 
something. 

“Brady, you’re damned wrong. I tell you, you’re on the 
wrong scent. I’m not using Mr. Compton. He and I are 
at sword’s points as to—to this strike business. This—this— 
that you see, for God’s sake, man, try to understand. He’s 
been fighting a losing game for years; it was out of his defeat 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


217 


he was trying to help those boys at the Torch Light—and 
before God, I was trying to help him win out. Win himself, 
Brady.” 

Brady sneered openly. 

Then Conklin asked: 

“You don’t believe me, Brady?” 

“ Believe you ? Hell, no! But if you want to tell this here 
yarn to the boys, now’s yer chance. That’s what I was a 
sayin’.” 

“Then by heaven, I will!” Conklin was making one of his 
quick calculations. It was win or lose, anyway. And the 
hour had struck. 

“Come on, Brady.” Then Conklin called to Cleaver. 

But somewhere in the clouded recesses of Compton’s 
brain his reason held control and reached out now to take 
command. He had been stopped in his drinking before utter 
demoralization had overcome him. He heard what was 
going on—dully. He understood but dimly the meaning of 
what was going on, but what little he understood his mind 
gripped and held. His eyes cleared and grew steady; he 
heard, not what was actually being said, but the inner mean¬ 
ing of it. 

When Cleaver appeared, Compton was capable of con¬ 
nected thought. 

“Yes, sir!” Cleaver did not flinch, but his face grew gray. 

“Cleaver!” it was Compton, not Conklin, who spoke, 
“Cleaver, my hat and coat, please. There’s business to 
attend to in Essex. You need not wait for me.” 

“Come, now, Compton,” Conklin stood in the middle 
of the room. “Don’t be a damned fool. Leave this to 
me.” 

“That’s impossible!” Compton turned toward Cleaver, 
who had returned with the coat and hat. 

“Now, gentlemen, are we all ready? Come on, then.” 

The drive through the still, cool night revived and calmed 
Compton. All five of the men were in Conklin’s car, but 
there was no talking, beyond a word, now and then. 

No one in Essex was ever to forget that night, for those who 


218 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


were not at the Torch Light heard of the doings the day after, 
and in the lurid light of later happenings. 

The waiting, perspiring crowd had been hastily got 
together by Brady’s henchmen. It was an ugly crowd, 
sullen and muttering. 

Brady led his captives to the platform—Conklin, cursing 
under his breath; Compton ghastly wan—but completely at 
ease. 

Brady’s confused, illiterate mouthings stirred the mob 
feverishly, and Conklin’s vehement demand for fair play 
only added to the unrest, but when Compton wearily came 
forward—the room grew still as it might in the presence of 
death. 

And the men listened. They heard a confession. It was 
like the confession of a criminal who, realizing that his last 
hope has vanished, unburdens his suffering soul. 

No two ever agreed exactly as to what was said, but there 
was not a man there that night who did not grasp the es¬ 
sentials. 

Compton’s failure must be their warning. From what 
he had been—he had tried to save them. He knew! If they 
owed him anything—and they must answer that for them¬ 
selves—they owed him an attempt at least to follow where he 
had pointed—but could not lead. 

Compton spoke for a half hour, slowly, impressively, and 
then he reeled back to a chair and sank down. 

There was a rumbling like distant thunder. A storm was 
gathering—but when would it break ? 

Presently the crowd stirred awkwardly. 

Brady got to his feet—and was hissed! 

Brady knew the symptoms; knew mobs, and he suddenly 
—retreated. 

Conklin took his place and his grim, set jaw had a certain 
influence over the crowd. 

“See here,” he shouted, “before any of us go off the 
handle—let’s get together. Together! Do you catch on? 
We owe”—he turned his bulging eyes upon Compton and 
Compton smiled and nodded, feebly—“we owe Mr. Compton 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


219 

that—you and I! We’ve all been pulling in the dark—let’s 
get together!” 

A snarl, then a conciliating—“that’s talking!” 

This came from a young Torch Lighter and it was followed 
by slow, begrudging applause. 

Compton smiled wanly, and when the ensuing excitement 
was over—he left the hall! 

He walked home alone under the calm stars. The cool¬ 
ness that comes bearing the day was in the air; the east was 
troubled—the great miracle of sunrise was near; the darkness 
was giving way. 

The library was empty when Compton entered, and he 
turned on the light. He knew that Cleaver was near, 
but he knew that he would not materialize until he was 
summoned. There was a sense of comfort in Cleaver’s 
unseen presence. 

Compton sat before the ash-strewn hearth and thought 
about Cleaver—and others. He rested for a while in his 
easy chair. He was very tired. He looked up at the clock. 
It was five o’clock. Outside the day had broken. 

No wonder he was tired. After a while he went to his 
desk and, taking a fresh pile of paper, he began to write. 
He wrote to Rose-Ann. He told her that when the time 
came for her to return, he wanted her to be free; not a craven, 
beaten thing pleading for forgiveness in order to obtain 
mercy. He further explained that he was leaving everything 
to her because he loved her; trusted her. He wanted her to 
gather up what was left—of his poor attempt at helpfulness 
—and carry it on. She had had a vision; she would bring to 
the work, when she returned, substance. That was what 
life meant—learning from all experience. 

Sitting alone in his quiet house, Compton wrote on and 
on wnile the rosy light outside, hidden by the drawn curtains, 
glowed and burned. There was a scent of flowers in the 
fresh air—Compton was dimly conscious of it as he wrote on 
and on. 

His lawyer, so he told Rose-Ann, would communicate with 
her—all had been arranged. 


220 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Then, at the letter’s end were these words—Compton had 
quoted them often to Rose-Ann: 

“Oh, God who made the evil and the good. 

Is it your will a man shall not forget, 

Dark yearnings for the sins he has withstood 

When all was finished Compton called Cleaver and said 
something that the faithful fellow never forgot. 

“What has occurred in Essex, Cleaver, is all right. Re¬ 
member what I say—all right! 

“It has done a great thing for me; the greatest thing that 
could have been done; the only thing. 

“Good-night, Cleaver. You should not have waited up— 
but Pm glad you did.” 

Cleaver’s features twitched as they struggled between tears 
and laughter. 

“No more writing, Cleaver. My impressions of America 
are complete.” They both laughed at that. 

“All that rot is done with, Cleaver. Good-night!” 

Compton’s eyes seemed to cling to the departing form 
of the man whose friendship and loyalty made him seem 
regal. After Cleaver’s last duty was finished Compton 
heard him go upstairs, arrange the bedroom, and then 
seek his own bedchamber. The house was silent now as 
the tomb. 

Compton returned to his desk. There was a long letter 
to write to his lawyer regarding the will made a few months 
before. The lawyer was to carry out a few details that 
Rose-Ann’s absence had made necessary. 

When all was carefully completed, Compton switched off 
the lights, opened the windows to the new day—and reaching 
for the revolver that always lay in a secret drawer of his desk, 
considered it thoughtfully. It held no terror for him. He 
was not afraid of death, but he was afraid of life. 

So, serenely and deftly, Compton turned his back upon life 
and went forth upon a new Adventure. 

Cleaver found him crumpled across his desk when he 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


221 


entered the library to start the fire upon the ashy hearth. 
The old man gathered the stiffened form in his arms as gently 
as a woman could have done—and pressing his white head to 
the defeated one that had passed out in glory, he wept like a 
child. 


CHAPTER XVII 


W HEN Rose-Ann left Middle Essex she underwent 
much the same experience that a person does 
who is lost in the deep forest. Movement was 
necessary, it would be fatal to stand still; there must be a way 
out, and it is the duty of the lost to seek it. 

Rose-Ann had plunged into the wilderness and she knew 
that, for the present at least, she could not turn back. In¬ 
deed, at that moment, all directions were the same to 
her. 

A bit of wood lore occurred to her—“If you can find water, 
follow that.” Well! there did not seem to be any visible 
stream, so Rose-Ann listened to the sound in her heart and 
soul. As all that was familiar to her receded, as she groped in 
the dark, her own words—“I am going West”—were like 
the sound of hidden waters. Eric Manville, alone, seemed an 
objective point; a static identity in a whirling world that was 
rapidly swinging everything else into space. 

Upon reaching Boston, Rose-Ann went to a quiet hotel 
where she and her mother had always gone for luncheon and 
where once they had stayed over night, when attending an 
opera. 

In extremities most human beings instinctively protect 
themselves, and Rose-Ann was deliberate and self-possessed 
when she faced the night clerk. Her appearance, her re¬ 
spectable bags, and the security that plenty of money in the 
pocket gives, paved her way. 

She did not sleep much that night, but she thought, not in 
circles but, presently, in a severe and direct line—outward. 

The prenatal fear that had haunted her all her life and 
had become an obsession, still held her. She saw only her 
own peril, as she termed it; the “Thing” had almost got her. 


222 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


223 


What they, her nearest and dearest, called love, was but a 
shield behind which they worked to gain the ultimate end. 
That was the net which ensnared so many—that disguise of 
love! 

Lying wide-eyed upon the strange bed in the hotel, she 
visioned herself—as she had left herself back in. Middle 
Essex—growing dun-coloured and indifferent. No thrills; 
no sudden joyousness—all flattened down into the Woman 
of her race. The submerged female who, while she was young 
and pretty, could barter, now and then: coax and cajole—but 
only just so far! And then would come the age when barter 
was no longer possible and when she must give and pay on 
demand. Day after day the same. Night after night a 
mere interlude of sodden slumber that gave one strength to 
plod along—along- 

Rose-Ann started up. She caught her slim body in her 
encircling arms; her eyes widened and brightened. 

“Why, that is what drove Aunt Theodora away!” she 
whispered, as if explaining to her rescued self what had not 
been clearly understood before. 

“Of course! And here was the whole world that God had 
given. The beautiful world of colour and action. Why 
should people grind and kill each other by slow torture when 
they could be free to choose? 

The world was big enough for everyone; if people were 
willing to pay the price. Why should death, instead of life, 
solve problems? 

Once, when she was a child, Rose-Ann had risen from her 
bed and prayed a desperate prayer. Prudence had angered 
her and, realizing her own disposition, she knelt and implored 
the Almighty to help her to remember to get even with 
Prudence! 

And so, now, she got up and knelt beside her strange bed 
and earnestly implored God to “keep her firm.” 

And when morning came Rose-Ann was firm. She counted 
her gains and losses; she was frightened and, at the same 
time, thrilled by the sense of adventure and freedom. 

She would travel! She reduced her plans to that. 



224 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“And afterwards?” the grim question caused Rose-Ann 
to turn pale. 

“Afterwards?” Then slowly—“I’ll have to pay.” 

The commonplace demands of breakfast and a visit to the 
bank had a sobering effect upon Rose-Ann and made her feel 
that she was part of the running machinery once more. 

At the bank it was suggested to her to buy travellers* 
checks and she became absorbed in the small business details 
that, to her ignorant mind, took on severe proportions. 
Then, since she had to buy tickets for some given point, 
she went to a tourists’ office where once she had gone to 
gather data about the trip she and her mother never took 
and, finding the same clerk, took advice and comfort from 
him. 

She would go to Denver and from there seek Tim’s Cor¬ 
ners which, it appeared, did not figure on the agent’s books. 

“It’s probably one of those towns reached by autos,” the 
man explained; “but where autos go you can safely rely 
upon getting where you want to go.” 

It all seemed ridiculously easy in spite of one’s fast-beating 
heart! 

The day after she left Middle Essex Rose-Ann started 
westward. Mentally—she let go! She was not conscious 
of remorse or regret. As a starved person might seize 
upon food without much discrimination, so the craving 
Rose-Ann had always known for just what was offered now 
greedily manifested itself. 

The one real and vital memory that caught and held her 
imagination was Aunt Theodora! More real than the 
strangers who occupied the car with her was the long-dead 
ancestor. Aunt Theodora seemed to be giving comfort and 
courage to the fugitive instinct that was driving Rose-Ann on. 
The fast-flying train sang along its shining rails and then, 
suddenly, Aunt Theodora materialized! 

She was older, naturally, and quite up to date as Aunt 
Theodora would surely be. 

“May I share your seat, my dear?” the gentle, cultivated 
voice caused Rose-Ann no surprise. “You see, my com- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


225 

partment is just across the aisle. We seem to be travelling 
alone.” 

“Of course!” Rose-Ann replied vaguely, and her eyes 
smiled into the amused ones looking into hers. 

“It’s quite like running away, isn’t it?” 

‘‘Exactly!” Rose-Ann beamed. 

“Is this your first visit to the West, my dear?” 

The kindly old eyes clung to the radiant young face that 
had bewitched them. 

“Yes. My first visit, anywhere, really.” 

“I thought so. One never looks quite the same the second 
time. It is rather a misfortune that you are travelling 
alone, it would give another such pleasure—just to watch 
you.” 

They smiled genially at each other. 

“I’ll—I’ll meet someone at the other end.” Rose-Ann 
flushed sweetly. 

“A husband?” 

“Well, hardly that!” Rose-Ann turned her eyes away. 

“Oh! I understand,” the old lady nodded. “You young 
girls! What lovers of adventure you are. In my day we 
were pulled up by the roots and planted somewhere else, by 
the hand of others, but nowadays, you young things keep 
your own hands on your affairs. You do not seem to have 
roots—nothing but wings or sails. You spread them and 

fly- 

“It is all very wonderful to us who will soon have to assume 
wings whether we want them or not, and I often wonder if 
you are being better prepared than we who—had roots?” 

Rose-Ann edged nearer to the dear, friendly old soul. 

“Who can tell,” she said wistfully. “If we have wings or 
sails, we are the same in our hearts. I am sure hearts do 
not change much.” 

“And you have no fears, my dear?” 

The young eyes and the old smiled. 

“Yes; many. Didn’t you have?” Rose-Ann whispered. 

“Yes, yes. But somehow they were stilled by others. I 
did not have the responsibility.” 


226 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“But you are alone now?” Rose-Ann touched the sleeve 
of black. 

“Yes, alone now, to the end, my dear, but it isn’t far, you 
know.” 

“It was—hard?” 

“Very. When I look back it is as if a lantern were turned 
that way; it is only dark ahead; but the fear is gone.” 

“I think,” Rose-Ann’s eyes were dim, “that my lantern’s 
light will always be on ahead.” 

“I hope so, my dear. But what a queer turn our talk has 
taken, and I felt only a curious interest in you, because of 
your rapt expression.” 

“What are you going West for?” Rose-Ann suddenly 
asked. 

“I am only going to Chicago, my dear. When I was your 
age, Chicago was West. And you?” 

“I am going”—the reaching-out look came to Rose-Ann’s 
eyes—“I’m going to a mining town in Colorado.” 

“Dear, dear—what a change. Well, it has warmed my 
heart to talk with you. It is queer, but somehow you seem to 
be doing what I might have done had I had wings instead of 
roots, long ago. 

“I will amuse my son and his wife by my description of our 
meeting—it has been quite romantic. I’d like to remember 
you by name-” 

“Rose-Ann-” Then Rose-Ann stopped. “Just Rose- 

Ann,” she flushed and smiled. 

“And,” she went on, “please let me think of you as Theo¬ 
dora—Aunt Theodora.” 

“How charming. A much prettier name than the one 
that was given to me. 

“I hope—you will always be happy, my dear, or if not”— 
the kind old voice faltered—“I do hope the good Lord will 
preserve that look in your eyes. It is such a glad look.” 

And when the train was speeding over plains and fertile 
fields beyond Chicago: when it heavily dragged up hills and 
the far peaks became less cloudlike—Rose-Ann, leaning 
back in her seat, thought with a little tug of the heartstrings 




THE TENTH WOMAN 


22 7 


of Aunt Theodora left behind. No longer did the old haunt¬ 
ing vision of Aunt Theodora take on the guise of the defeated 
dead, hid away in a forgotten corner of the Middle Essex 
graveyard; it had risen warm and sweet and kind in pretty 
clothes. It had been friendly and stopped off at the Middle 
West—as far as Aunt Theodora could go! But the dear 
words and smile lingered like warm touches to give courage 
and hope. 

And presently courage was needed; courage and faith. 
While semi-familiar scenes flitted by the window there was 
little sense of tragedy, but when the desert surrounded the 
train Rose-Ann was appalled. The vast empty spaces fright¬ 
ened her; she closed her eyes, hoping that when next she 
opened them the horror would be passed. But it persisted. 
When the sun went down it seemed to pick out the clumps of 
sage grass and fill them with colour. It was then that Rose- 
Ann recalled Manville’s description of the massive canvas 
over which the Artist’s hand was still moving. Something of 
the terror departed with the thought, and looking from the 
window of her berth at sunrise, she again watched the effect 
of that moving but unseen hand on the wide stretches. It 
was, she began to realize, a foreground for the lofty peaks 
which, at the end of another day, brooded like clouds on the 
horizon. 

“I feel,” whispered Rose-Ann to her lonely self, “as if I 
had died and been floating through—nothing. And now I 
am nearing Something!” She kept repeating, for comfort, 
the old line: 

“Out of the dark behind us; we entered here!” 

But suddenly every sense was struck to life. Off to the 
west the sun was setting behind what had seemed a bank of 
clouds. 

“Oh! they are mountains!” breathed Rose-Ann. “Moun¬ 
tains!” 

The train had come out of a gloomy canyon and was 
speeding across a level space. The highest clouds—two of 
them—were rose-coloured and gold; between them lay the 
mysterious highway leading on and on indefinitely. 


228 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“It is the gateway to what?” The tears, wet on Rose- 
Ann’s lashes, made the glory flicker and shine the brighter. 
The soul of the girl at that instant seemed nearing a resting 
place. Of her body she took no heed. 

When she alighted from the train in Denver, she consulted 
her notebook. Yes, everything was quite clear. She was to 
remain over night at a* certain hotel. A porter, like a 
trained genie, was at hand to guide her there! Everything 
was magic now. 

She needed only her little handbag for the night. The 
genie explained that she would have to leave the same sta¬ 
tion in the morning for Tim’s Corners. He knew all about 
Tim’s Corners, too. The smiling fellow appeared to know all 
about everything. 

So he checked the bags that Rose-Ann did not need, 
took the one she did need, and placed her, and it, in a taxi. 
Certainly the way of the transgressor, in travel, is made easy. 
Any bed that remained stationary all night had power to 
woo Rose-Ann to deep, unbroken slumber, and she greeted 
the next morning refreshed and curious. 

At eight-thirty she left Denver for Tim’s Corners with 
all the composure of a seasoned traveller. There would 
undoubtedly be other genii at her destination. 

There was nothing beyond Tim’s Corners, apparently, but 
eternity. When Rose-Ann stepped from the train—for the 
last four hours she had been the only passenger—she had a 
moment of unadulterated panic. No genie materialized. 

The trainmen, to all appearances, felt no further re¬ 
sponsibility toward her and went their ways. The station, 
a mere shack, was dark and closed—after eight o’clock p.m. 
Tim’s Corners had no interest in railroads. 

Standing with her luggage at her feet, Rose-Ann looked 
at the twinkling lights of what indicated the possibility of a 
village. Dimly she traced a road, only one, leading out into 
—space. And just when the panic was close upon despera¬ 
tion, Rose-Ann became aware of a tall, gaunt male figure near 
her. The figure was clad in a black-and-white checked shirt, 
a broad-brimmed felt hat, and corduroy trousers which were 


THE TENTH WOMAN 229 

tucked into high laced boots. Very muddy, ill-shaped boots 
they were. 

The man regarded Rose-Ann, spat, and regarded her again. 

“May I ask, ma’am,” he spoke at last, “where you’re 
aimin’ ter go?” 

Whatever Rose-Ann had expected Tim’s Corners to be, 
she forgot now. Her plan to go to a hotel and telephone her 
arrival to Manville was relegated to limbo—there was only 
one thing under heaven to do: get to Manville and throw 
herself upon his mercy. The man near her was the possible 
connecting link. 

She had heretofore used Manville’s name as an arrow to 
wound Braintree; she had conjured with it while she bided in 
safety, but now it was the only thing left to her that was 
familiar. Wreck or salvation must be gained through Man¬ 
ville, and the man in the checked shirt was the spar to which 
she must cling. 

“I’m Tony Marshall,” the man vouchsafed, eyeing Rose- 
Ann as he might a scared rabbit. 

“I want—very much,” Rose-Ann felt her teeth chatter¬ 
ing, “to go to Lone Two Ranch. I—I want Mr. Eric Man¬ 
ville.” And so she did—desperately. 

“Eric, eh? Well, now this is luck. I’m headed for the 
Lone Two. Got a lot of stuff, yonder, on the truck for the 
Lone Two. If you don’t mind, miss, wedging in ’mong 
taters, turnips, flour, and whatnot. I can haul yer up to the 
Lone Two by nine, at the latest. Roads are putty treach¬ 
erous—but we can make it.” 

“Oh! I am so much obliged.” Rose-Ann was panting 
as she followed Marshall. He helped her to the seat beside 
his on the motor truck; arranged her bags, and jumped 
U P- 

The heavy truck ground its way into the gloom, its lights 
making secure the way on ahead. 

The jolting was agonizing, but Rose-Ann gritted her teeth 
and made no sign. 

Presently Marshall entered into conversation. 

“Relation—maybe—to Manville?” he asked. 


2 3 o THE TENTH WOMAN 

“No!” The word came explosively as the truck hit a 
rough spot. 

No further information coming, Marshall spat resent¬ 
fully and fell into silence. 

There were frequent stops at houses scattered beyond the 
small hamlet. Marshall had orders to deliver to each, and 
often paused for exchange of gossip. From whispers, now 
and then, Rose-Ann, waiting in the darkness, gathered that 
she was under discussion. 

“Well, ma’am,” Marshall, after the sixth stop, announced, 
“from here ter the Lone Two me and you has got ter make 
the most of each other.” 

He laughed good-naturedly; his resentment was gone, but 
his curiosity flamed. 

He entertained Rose-Ann with data about his recent 
customers. “A punk lot!” he admitted. “Living close to¬ 
gether takes humanity from folks, ’stead of adding to it.” 

Reflecting upon the scattered houses, Rose-Ann felt that 
humanity had not been greatly tested. She suggested this. 

“Lord Almighty!” Marshall roared with laughter, “yer 
call yonder lonely? Why, ma’am, up where folks has a 
chance ter be folks, yer might’n see a neighbour for a month. 
When the winter sets there ain’t no afternoon calling till the 
roads are broken.” 

Another eloquent pause. Then: 

“We’re goin’ inter the canyon now, ma’am. T’other side, 
and we’re there!” 

It was like going into the gaping jaws of death; the only 
seeming hold on life was the contact of the huge form of 
Marshall and, against that, Rose-Ann unconsciously pressed 
while the high walls of the chasm rose grimly and the lights 
of the truck, like vivid fingers, went groping along the narrow, 
rough road ahead. The awful stillness was broken by the 
sound of running water near at hand and the thudding roar 
of falls as they tumbled from the heights to the depths below. 

Rose-Ann was beyond the sensations of awe or fear—she 
felt part of a terrific experience and was enduring it with 
non-resistance. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


231 


And then there came to her the memory of the legend 
Manville had told her of the canyon over whose trail de¬ 
parting spirits went. 

And, as consciously as she had ever felt anything in her life, 
Rose-Ann felt that she was passing out through the dark into 
an experience toward which all her life had inevitably driven 
her. At that moment she felt that she had never had 
choice; that there was neither right nor wrong. A power 
had held her to one rigid course that terminated—in this 
darkness. 

Presently through her benumbed sense Rose-Ann was 
conscious of Marshall’s voice and at the same time of a 
glimmer of light—was it a star?—far up on a hilly slope. 
The walls of the canyon were gone—there were air and life 
once more. 

“I was a-saying ma’am, there’s a safe enough trail leading 
straight up ter the house from here—jest foller that there 
glimmer of light. If you’d like ter stretch yer legs by the 
quick cut, I can set yer down here. The road round to the 
cabin is considerable further.” 

“Oh! yes; yes. Thank you—I would like to—to stretch 
my legs.” 

The words did not seem to hold any meaning. Rose-Ann 
did not care whether she was put down or not—she was 
relaxed and near to tears. And once she was on the ground, 
she was surprised to find herself there. 

“I must go—alone?” she faltered. 

“It ain’t but a step”; Marshall comforted. “It’s high and 
steep, but the folks—they’re expecting yer, ain’t they?— 
will be waiting, like as not, by the door. They’ve heard the 
wheels coming, I reckon.” 

Stiff, weak, and terrified, Rose-Ann, keeping the light in 
view, began her climb. It was not far, but her trembling 
limbs and the carpet of pine needles over which she slipped 
retarded her. Occasionally she stopped to take breath and 
once, blinded by tears, she lost the gleam of light and hit 
herself against a tree. 

This brought her to her senses. She dashed the tears 


232 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


away and looked up. Overhead the stars were shining; an 
owl, in the distance, called weirdly. 

When Rose-Ann got near enough to the cabin to see its 
outlines, she paused again to take breath. The house was a 
long, low, one-storied cabin of logs; an enormous stone 
chimney rose at either end and there were rows of small-paned 
windows that glistened and shone. The porch that ran 
across the front of the cabin was nearly on a level with the 
ground. Rose-Ann, presently, stepped up and knocked 
timidly on the door. There was no response and she knocked 
again—her teeth chattering. 

Then, slowly, the door opened and in the warm glow from 
within a tall, gracefully poised woman in a dull blue gown 
stood—with a pistol in her hand! 

“Jo Lambert,” she said quietly, and her voice had deep 
intonations like an organ, “I told you to get out. I’m not 
much given to shooting, as you all know, but I can shoot and 
I don’t intend to be pestered past a certain point. I warned 
you off earlier.” Then the calm, grave eyes, searching the 
gloom, fell upon Rose-Ann. 

“The Lord save us!” gasped the woman. “Who are you 
and where in heaven’s name did you come from ?” 

“I’m—I’m Rose-Ann Braintree from Middle Essex”— 
how utterly foolish it sounded! It seemed as futile here as 
it might have at heaven’s gate. 

“I’m—I’m a friend of Mr. Manville’s—is he home?” 
An awful doubt had entered in. 

“Home?” the woman asked dazedly. “Home? Why, 
he’s in South Africa—or on his way there, the last I heard. 
Come in!” 

Rose-Ann was under the impression that she was being 
carried in; she certainly was led in and put in a chair 
before the largest fire she had ever seen in her life. Her 
brain was giddy—a comical thought struck it—the old 
memory of her idea of hell; perhaps she had been shovelled 
in! 

“Here! I’m going to get some hot coffee for you,” the 
tall woman was saying; “it’s just ready; the evening meal, 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


233 

too; we’ve been delayed on the range; only just got in. As 
soon as you’re steadier, you can eat.” 

Rose-Ann gradually got control of herself—she let her 
eyes roam around the strange but beautiful room, while the 
tall woman prepared the coffee. It was an enormous room 
and the walls and ceiling were of rough logs. Couches, 
covered with beautiful skins, were built in, and tables of 
home make were scattered about with wonderful chairs 
standing temptingly by. 

There were bookcases, too, and at the far end of the room 
a supper table neatly laid with several steaming dishes upon 
it. Rose-Ann was conscious of it all but she had no sensa¬ 
tion of either pleasure or fear. 

The woman in blue moved over to the table and poured a 
cup of coffee. In the red glow of fire and lamp she seemed 
like a tall angel. Her skin was very fair; her eyes the colour 
of her gown, and her straight black hair was wound about 
her head as seraphs wore theirs, in an old book that 
Rose-Ann remembered. The woman brought the coffee to 
the fire and bent over Rose-Ann; she was alarmed. 

“Now drink this, child, you look as if you were about all 
in.” 

The hot liquid did its sanctifying work. Rose-Ann smiled. 

“You are-” she hesitated. 

“Whilla Brookes,” the deep-toned voice replied. The 
woman’s wonderful eyes clung to Rose-Ann’s face. 

“Mr. Manville’s housekeeper? He never mentioned 
your name,” Rose-Ann faltered. Then: “Thank you—you 
are very kind.” 

“He wouldn’t be likely to mention my name—why should 
he?” the woman returned. 

Still that searching gaze fixed upon Rose-Ann. After a 
slight pause Whilla went on—more to herself than to Rose- 
Ann: 

“But he might have mentioned his trip abroad and 
spared you this journey and shock.” 

There was a strain in the low, even tones. Then, as an 
afterthought, and with a keener look: 



2 34 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“But perhaps you’ve just stopped off and are on some trip 
of your own.” 

There was that about Whilla Brookes, and Rose-Ann soon 
learned it, that exacted simple truth and confidence. The 
slightest deviation brought a high colour to the pale face and 
a dangerous glint to the blue eyes. 

In her extremity Rose-Ann replied: 

“No—I came right here from home.” 

The bald statement held again the comical aspect of 
triviality. 

“Massachusetts, you know.” 

For some reason this was illuminating. 

“I—seel” Whilla Brookes let the words fall slowly as if 
she were measuring them. “Massachusetts, of course. 
Manville has been visiting there. I see! 

“Come, let me help you take off your coat and hat. We 
must eat, you know.” 

There was a vague suggestion of fear in Whilla Brookes’s 
voice. She was groping in the dark for what she could not, 
in her confused state of mind, determine. She dared not 
think of herself or of what this stranger menaced. Man¬ 
ville was her first and only concern. She had been called 
upon, in the past, to protect and defend his property, his 
interests, and now, she felt, she must, in his absence, protect 
him. 

Everything seemed to be at stake, and yet to move at all 
was fraught with danger. Dazedly, Whilla helped Rose-Ann 
with her coat and hat; with tragic pathos she made an effort 
to reduce the astounding experience to the commonplace. 

“There! You look more comfortable,” she said as Rose- 
Ann sank back in her chair. “You must forgive my sur¬ 
prise—but just at first I thought you were an unearthly 
visitor. You see, one gets a bit flighty in this altitude, and 
being alone so much.” 

The words ended in a nervous laugh. Then: 

“Please come. The food will be quite cold.” 

At last the meal was over and both women rose as if by 
common consent. Their conversation, while they ate, had 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


235 

not brought them nearer to each other, but it had disclosed 
each to herself in a startling manner. 

To a certain extent both were trapped and were relaxing 
in order to preserve their strength and avail themselves of 
any possibility of escape. 

“I am very tired,” said Rose-Ann, and her pitiful, white 
face proved it. 

“In Eric Manville’s house,” Whilla Brookes remarked, 
taking a candle from the table, “there is always a guest room 
ready.” 

She moved across the wide room to the far side where three 
closed doors appeared. 

“This room,” Whilla opened the middle door, “is the east 
chamber; the guest room. I will light the fire.” 

Rose-Ann followed her in and sank wearily into a chair by 
the hearth, watching the kindlings catch the fire from the 
candle held close to them. 

Gradually from out the gloom the ruddy glow of the flames 
disclosed the quaint furnishings. The rude bed proclaiming, 
above its primitiveness, the promise of comfort. The 
dressing table, home-made and chintz-draped; the gay woven 
rugs, the pretty curtains at the broad casement window, 
undoubtedly opening to the east. 

“You will not mind the early morning sun? There are no 
shades, but we can pin something over the window to¬ 
morrow!” 

“I love the sunrise.” Rose-Ann tried to smile up into the 
calm face regarding her. 

“You and I are alone in the house,” Whilla further ex¬ 
plained; “all the others have accommodations outside. 
You may leave the door open if you feel lonely. Good¬ 
night.” 

For a moment Rose-Ann had an impulse to cry out; to hold 
the departing blue-clad figure. Spiritually, she was com¬ 
bating what she fully realized was in Whilla Brookes’s 
mind, and yet she knew that any betrayal of herself would but 
complicate matters. She was caught in a trap the spring of 
which she had, herself, set. She must accept the hospitality 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


236 

of Manville’s home on the terms that Whilla Brookes offered. 

“ Good-night!” again Whilla spoke and paused on the 
threshold. “ Shall I—close the door?” 

The words sounded like a challenge, and then Rose-Ann 
did one of her unexpected and impulsive things. As she 
spoke, her own words amazed her. They seemed to be 
carrying something out of her inner consciousness without 
her consent. 

“Oh! please. Just a moment.” Whilla came back across 
the room at once. 

“ Everything that I am accustomed to,” Rose-Ann’s words 
trembled, “is swept aside. Tve done the sweeping myself— 
believe me! I do not know how to—to behave; how to 
explain myself. 

“We are alone, you and I in this—this wilderness, but the 
whole world seems to lie between us. 

“Can you—will you—be kind until I get control of my¬ 
self? See what it is that I have done, exactly?” 

As often occurs at tense moments, the confusion of Rose- 
Ann’s words cleared, instead of obscured, the situation. 
Whilla Brookes drew a step nearer; she extended her hand as 
if to soothe Rose-Ann and then withdrew it, but said gently: 

“You are very, very tired. Try to sleep. To-morrow we 
can talk, you know. 

“It is never safe,” she added, “to explain things when one 
is tired—or sick. Good-night. Shall I leave the door open ?” 

“Yes, please—and good-night!” 

Rose-Ann stood up and watched Whilla Brookes pass from 
sight; a moment later, in the room on the right, she heard her 
moving about and then—silence. 

Whilla had left the candle behind her, and by its golden 
light and the fire’s glow Rose-Ann undressed and went to bed. 

She slept as only the exhausted young can sleep among 
conditions that would have put older people on the rack. 

It was the early sunrise that awakened her. She sat up in 
bed and watched it, framed by the wide window. Over the 
pointed pines the colours trembled and changed; the beauty 
quickened Rose-Ann’s imagination; her eyes filled with tears 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


237 

and suddenly, as if she had carefully thought the thing out, 
she whispered. 

“I must tell her everything! There is nothing else to do— 
I cannot bear what she now thinks. I cannot go back at 
once, and I cannot stay here—unless she knows. I must tell 
her everything. ,, 

It seemed a simple thing to do in that mystic hour when 
vitality, at low ebb, was the prey to emotion, but once 
dressed and ready to meet Whilla Brookes, Rose-Ann shrank 
from her ordeal. What was there to tell? As she tried to 
frame her sentences, even to herself, she was conscious of that 
conflict between the spiritual and the physical expression of 
it. And yet, hesitating by the door of the bedroom, Rose- 
Ann had never been more confident than she then was of the 
rightness of her revolt; the inevitability of it. It was her 
unwisdom in choosing her way of retreat that humbled and 
frightened her. She must deal with the future more sanely; 
securely. 

This brought Rose-Ann small comfort, for the present 
demanded her whole attention. By her unconsidered act 
she had involved Manville unpardonably unless she could, by 
frank statement, clear him of any part in her wild adventure. 
This was her plain duty; unmindful of herself she must 
exonerate him. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


W HEN Rose-Ann went into the living room she 
felt as though she were treading on air; she, who 
had spent her days on the sea level, was strangely 
affected by the altitude. It did not make her dizzy or short 
of breath, but it seemed to take all weight from her body. It 
was like a dream that occasionally delighted her. She could, 
while in the dream, raise her arms and float about—it was 
only when she lowered her arms that she fell! Fell! With a 
wan smile she decided that she must now keep her arms 
raised. 

The big room was filled with sunshine. It had been, 
apparently, freshly swept and a roaring fire blazed on the 
hearth. 

Upon the dining table, at the right side of the room, 
a single service was spread—the housekeeper had 
either breakfasted, or was not to eat with her guest. This 
gave a reprieve and the sense of floating in space was 
revived. 

Rose-Ann stood by the fire not knowing what to do; but 
grateful for her solitude. 

Just then the kitchen door opened and a lean, lanky boy, 
of perhaps eighteen, stared stolidly at her. 

“Oh!” he said presently, “here you are, are yer?” 
Rose-Ann nodded. 

“Coffee—ham an’ eggs—bacon eggs—sassage—hot cakes 
and ’lasses?” The words came strung together in a mo¬ 
notonous tone. 

“Just coffee, please,” Rose-Ann replied, singling out a few 
familiar items, “and toast and one egg.” 

The boy departed and came back at once with the coffee, 
a plate of ham and eggs, and cakes. His interpretation of the 

238 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


239 

order made Rose-Ann laugh. Apparently certain articles 
of food were classed together in the youth’s lexicon. 

Having finished her meal and seen the remains cleared 
away, a growing awkwardness possessed Rose-Ann. What 
was she to do? Now that she was clear-minded, a panic 
overcame her. Night is not always the time for wild alarms. 
She was falling now, falling from whatever heights she had 
scaled. She could not sit idly by in the present state of 
affairs. 

She began to make calculations. Travelling was a costly 
luxury, she had discovered. The funds she had taken from 
the bank had seemed a small fortune, before she set forth, 
but they had melted like the spring snow. While there was 
considerable money left, Rose-Ann dared not take to the road 
again, with no definite plans, until she had connected herself 
with her home supply. 

She decided to write at once to her Boston lawyer and to 
the Boston Bank. This she set about to do. It gave her 
something to think about and filled a couple of hours. The 
lank boy, moving about between kitchen and living room, 
finally took the letters, promising to “get them out” in a day 
or so. 

“Some durned feller will be passing,” he assured Rose-Ann; 
and with that she had to be content. 

With the letters dispatched, Rose-Ann was again overcome 
by her predicament. She tried to imagine how it would have 
been had Manville been at home. The thought turned her 
hot and cold. 

Rose-Ann was coming to herself more truly than even she, 
at the moment, comprehended. 

As the hours dragged on, from her confused state she 
detached certain bald conclusions that could be depended 
upon as real, for the rest, they whirled through her aching 
brain, taking on new forms as they twirled. 

She must have a perfectly frank talk with Whilla Brookes. 
It might make matters worse, but it must be done! 

She must, at whatever cost, clear Manville of any re¬ 
sponsibility for her own madness. Whilla Brookes might 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


240 

draw her own conclusions, but she must have truth to rely 
upon. 

Over and over Rose-Ann thrashed the two poor conclusions 
threadbare. She went to the window as she might to prison 
bars, and looked out upon the surroundings. It never oo* 
curred to her to leave the house. 

There were small log cabins grouped about, homes of the 
men engaged upon the ranch, undoubtedly. From these 
cabins emerged now and again Japanese in clean white duck, 
servants presumably, and their grinning cheerfulness had 
a strange effect upon Rose-Ann. It made her desolately 
afraid. 

About noon Whilla Brookes appeared on horseback. She 
rode superbly and in her trim riding breeches and coat she 
looked handsome, and much younger. 

She came into the living room and greeted Rose-Ann as 
though she were a guest of the most ordinary type. 

“I’m sorry to leave you alone so much,” she said, removing 
her hat and gloves and sitting by the fire; “when Mr. Man- 
ville is here he attends to outdoor matters, but in his absence 
no one understands them as I do. The men are all devoted 
and good, but they depend upon me. 

“I suppose you know about the mines?” 

Rose-Ann flushed. 

“Not much,” she replied. 

Whilla Brookes was watching the downcast face; her eyes 
were deep and troubled. While Rose-Ann had slept she had 
kept a strange vigil; it was like watching all that one pos¬ 
sesses, threatened from an unexpected quarter. She was alert 
now, but guarded. 

The noonday meal was served and shared; the lean boy 
waited upon them, but the Japanese was responsible for the 
plain but good cooking, Rose-Ann was told. 

“After dinner I will explain,” Rose-Ann kept thinking and, 
as she looked at the fine, strong face across the table, the 
confession seemed to grow easier and easier. 

There are women who appeal to other women, as God might 
—sure, faithful, and understanding. This characteristic 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


241 

cannot be put into words; it is elusive but pervading. It has 
nothing to do with virtue or the reverse; it is a quality that 
makes itself felt in a glance of the eye, a touch of the hand, 
but mostly, perhaps, in the tones of the voice. One feels 
toward such women the inclination to touch the hem of a 
garment. 

The afternoon passed, however, without the coveted chance 
for confidential talk. 

“Come out with me,” Whilla Brookes said, “the air is 
divine—you need it. You’ll be interested in the country; 
you and I are the only women within several miles—we must 
keep each other company and get acquainted. Can you 
ride?” 

“I thought I could—until I saw you!” Rose-Ann lifted 
her eyes to the calm face watching her. 

“If you can keep on it’s all right. We have a safe horse.” 

The invigorating air, the excitement of feeling herself 
secure on horseback, exhilarated Rose-Ann, and presently the 
marvellous beauty and grandeur of the ^cenery awed and 
impressed her to such an extent that she became absorbed 
and thrilled. She and her small affairs sank into insignifi¬ 
cance. She was conscious only of an inspiration that domi¬ 
nated her, impersonally. 

She was so silent that Whilla Brookes, occasionally riding 
close to her, watched her face with an interest that knew 
both sympathy and aversion. 

“You love it all?” Whilla spoke slowly; “the strangeness 
and sublimity do not overpower you? Some people are 
afraid.” 

“I am not afraid.” Rose-Ann did not turn her head and 
her eyes were rapt. “And it does not seem strange. I feel 
as if I had been here before. In a way it is like coming back.” 

Whilla’s heart throbbed quicker and the fear again gripped 
her. 

The two trotted along for a time in a silence fraught with 
emotions that were driving them apart. 

Rose-Ann was conscious, in a sense, of what her com¬ 
panion was thinking, and Whilla Brookes was trying as she 


242 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


never had in her life before to be just; to live up to, now that 
the hour had perhaps come, her rigid, simple code. 

“She is trying to push me aside: she will not let me ex¬ 
plain,” Rose-Ann thought. 

“I will not judge,” mused Whilla. “Eric must deal with 
this—I will not complicate it.” Again they rode on without 
speaking. Then: 

“These,” Whilla said presently, “are the mines. The 
Lone Two.” She drew her horse up sharply and pointed 
with her riding whip to the marks in the hills where man had 
cut and dug because of the faith that was in him. “They 
will be reckoned with some day. Manville knows what he 
is about. He and some Englishmen have sunk thousands in 
those holes, but they’ll get it all out, threefold—and Man¬ 
ville will have the glory of a twofold victory: his own, and his 
power to make others believe in him! There are gold and 
silver there but”—and here Whilla’s voice shook—“there’s 
more than that—it is a dream come true. But perhaps you 
know all about this?” 

“No.” Rose-Ann was strangely depressed. “Mr. Man¬ 
ville rarely spoke of his business.” 

The ride home in the gloaming added to Rose-Ann’s 
sense of misunderstanding and defeat. 

Instead of wanting to confide in Whilla Brookes, she now 
began to demand, silently, defiantly, an opportunity for ex¬ 
planation. 

After the evening meal, which was eaten during awkward 
silences broken by spasmodic attempts at conversation, 
Whilla announced that she had asked the men to join them 
later. 

“We’re a queer lot here,” she explained, “dependent upon 
each other for what we have, socially. There are plenty of 
books and magazines and scenery, but when it comes to folks 
we must take—as is!” She laughed lightly, moving about 
the big firelighted room restlessly, while from her chair by 
the hearth Rose-Ann watched her furtively. 

“And it’s quite wonderful,” Whilla talked on, “to discover 
the social leaders, even here. I’ve learned that the social 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


243 

genius is not a trained species, but a natural one. You may 
judge for yourself later.” 

It was about eight o’clock when the kitchen door opened 
and Marshall, with two or three men of the ranch, entered and 
quite naturally seated themselves around the fire. 

“On my way down,” Marshall began, fixing his humorous 
eyes on Rose-Ann, “I figured I better stop in and see if you 
wanted to go along back. Not having seen yer since I 
dumped yer—I had no way of telling how yer visit was 
panning out.” 

Here was an opportunity—but Rose-Ann dared not take 
it—she was tied hand and foot. 

“I would feel that I had failed terribly if Mrs. Braintree 
left so soon”; Whilla Brookes was steadying the situation; 
“she is seeing the West for the first time; doing the real 
American grand tour. We must show her the best before 
she travels on.” 

Marshall shifted the tobacco in his mouth and remarked: 

“She don’t look as stranded as she did last night.” 

“I—I felt as if I’d been dropped off a precipice then,” 
Rose-Ann managed a small relieved laugh. 

“And landed on a soft spot, eh ?” Marshall’s eyes twinkled. 

“Yes.” 

“Where did you hail from?” This from a lean, handsome 
chap whose ideas of friendliness were founded on complete 
confidence and simplicity, unhampered by restraint. 

“Massachusetts.” Rose-Ann turned to him. 

“That’s the one state,” the boy said, “that I ain’t camped 
out in by my own fire.” 

“What was the matter with Massachusetts?” Marshall 
asked. “Yer can’t hand out that style of talk to a lady 
from Massachusetts without explaining.” 

The boy laughed. 

“Oh! I edged inter the state,” he admitted, “but I didn’t 
build a fire. I felt like a bum in a city park. Sorter keeping 
off the grass all the time. I’m blamed if I could find an acre 
in the whole state that wasn’t cleared and a wire fence 
bounding it.” 


244 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


The explanation seemed to appease Marshall. A man 
could well be excused for discriminating against a state where 
such conditions prevailed. 

“Well,” he drawled, “ter prove yer ain’t got any feeling 
against the natives of Massachusetts, Dingley, give us a 
song.” 

Apparently Rose-Ann was to be entertained and, she sus¬ 
pected, by pre-arrangement. 

Dingley, nothing loath, broke into song. He had a beauti¬ 
ful voice, untrained and faulty, but deep and sweet. He 
chose for his performance the old classic of “Frankie Was a 
Good Woman,” and with head thrown back generously gave 
the whole divine tragedy—the company clapping at the end 
of each stanza, and two or three joining in the chorus: 

“Frankie was a good woman 
’Most everybody knows, 

She paid a hundred dollars 

For to buy her man some clothes. 

He was her man— 

But he done her wrong.” 

Dramatically, Dingley repeated the last line. Then 
conscientiously following the revealment of Frankie’s man’s 
true character, to which the group gravely listened, Dingley 
triumphantly roared out: 

“Frankie went up to Miss Angelina’s house 
And she didn’t go for fun, 

For underneath her apron 
She had a six-shooter gun.” 

And then everyone joined in on the refrain, lustily: 

“He was her man, 

But he done her wrong.” 

The words meant nothing to Rose-Ann, but the clear, 
young voice thrilled her and the happy smile with which she 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


245 

greeted Dingley, when he rose to bow, pleased the boy 
mightily. 

During the singing one of the men, older than the others, 
had been whispering to Whilla Brookes, and in the quiet that 
followed Dingley’s entertainment his tones became audible 
to all: 

“Yes, ma'am , I wasn’t born yesterday, nor yet hatched 
to-day. That oily looking cove has been percolating around 
until he’s got me whoozy, and this morning he drifted in ter 
camp with a chunk of ore in his hand and a hard look on his 
ugly phiz like he’d been running too fast. 

“He said he’d been told I could tell ore like all tarnation 
and I told him I could. He handed out the chunk, and by 
gosh! I felt queer way down to my boots. And I says ter 
him, ‘show me where you got that and I’ll tell you something 
that will curl yer hair.’ 

“He thought he had me all right. He’d got all he wanted 
ter know, and he took me down Jake’s Gully and pointed out 
a hole in the ground that he’d been picking, he said—and I 
just got down and smelt around and fed him up. Made him 
think me a sucker that believed what he was saying.” 

A silence. Then Whilla Brookes spoke. She had been 
listening intently. 

“You think, Noxon, that the stranger is prowling about the 
Lone Two mines?” 

“That’s about the way I study it out. And hiding his 
tracks by picking in Jake’s Gully.” 

“It’s mighty good of you to come here to me, Noxon.” 
Whilla Brookes turned from him with a smile. Then: 

“Put two or three of the boys wise. No shooting, mind 
you, so long as the Sheriff keeps neutral.” 

Later, coffee and cakes were served to the callers and then, 
when they had gone, the clock struck ten. Whilla Brookes 
rose and leaned against the fireplace. Her strong brown 
hand, fine and delicate in shape, was spread against the 
stones. 

“I wonder if you have noticed these rocks,” she said 
quietly, looking at the chimney. “There’s ore in them, 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


246 

gold, silver. Manville carried each one here himself. He 
used to look as if he were praying as he knelt, devoutly 
placing each rough stone in its niche.” 

“Have you been here long?” Rose-Ann asked as if 
suddenly the question was of the gravest importance. Some 
new element was creeping into the relations of the two 
women. Whilla Brookes seemed bent upon keeping Manville 
before Rose-Ann. 

“Six years. It seems longer. They have been wonderful 
years. Years are, when they are filled with disappoint¬ 
ments, successes, and—and the making good! That is what 
the years have meant to Manville, and I—have looked on!” 

Whilla’s words drifted almost to a whisper, and standing as 
she did with the firelight brightening her drooping face, she 
looked lovely. 

As if but waiting its moment to spring to life, an ugly 
doubt in Rose-Ann’s mind flared up. At that instant both 
she and Whilla Brookes, each in her own vague, groping 
way, realized that the ideal of Manville was being threatened. 
With the bruising, silent knowledge of this, they reacted 
characteristically. Whilla was alert to protect, to defend, 
while Rose-Ann, her oft-abhorred ancestry gripping her, 
intellectually drew her skirts aside. 

With the flood of new emotions choking her, Rose-Ann 
rallied presently and felt the shame, the self-contempt and 
humiliation that were her salvation. 

And Whilla Brookes, mistaking the flush on Rose-Ann’s 
face—the lowered eyes—asked the world-old, pitiful woman- 
question: 

“How dare she judge—she?” 

The palpitating silence was as potent as though words had 
raked the situation to the roots, leaving it bare and quiver¬ 
ing. And so the evening came to an end—with a casual 
good-night. 

For several days there was a truce, skillfully managed by 
Whilla. 

Then, when every exit seemed closed to a common meeting 
ground, Whilla asked quietly one evening, releasing, as she 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


247 


spoke, her heavy braids of hair, as if their weight was more 
than her aching head could bear: 

“Will you tell me something of your home and people? 
When I was very young I lived in the East. I would love to 
know you better.” 

Rose-Ann felt her throat contract, the tears rise to her 
eyes. She longed to kneel at the feet of the standing woman 
and cry out for pity. The days had worn upon her des¬ 
perately. 

“And,” Whilla went slowly on, feeling her way through 
conflicting emotions: “I wonder if we could drop the ‘Miss* 
and ‘Mrs/? I do not know how it seems to you, but I 
believe we would find everything easier if we could—without 
too much effort.” Now that the artificial barrier was down, 
emotion had its way. 

“I will be glad to, Whilla!” 

This much Rose-Ann could do, and was surprised to find 
how easily the name fell from her lips. 

“Thank you, Rose-Ann!” Whilla smiled, and as she bent 
forward her long, loosened braids fell over her shoulder and 
gave her a peculiarly youthful look. “ I will sit down again,” 
she said; “that is, if you are not too tired for a little talk.” 

She took her old seat and, facing the fire, waited with that 
serene patience that so often marked her. 

And presently Rose-Ann spoke. Her abrupt pauses, the 
rigid hold that she kept upon herself, were far more eloquent 
and illuminating than her words. Whilla listened, but 
caught the under-meaning that gave her a wider area of 
vision than Rose-Ann suspected. 

The brief glimpses of childish reaching out for brightness 
and adventure which Rose-Ann portrayed were more tragic 
to Whilla Brookes than they were to Rose-Ann herself. 
Whilla adored children, as so many childless women do, and 
any infringement upon their rights and happiness could 
rouse her as nothing else could. For a moment, she lost 
sight of Rose-Ann, and saw only a lonely little child. 

“It all seems so absurd,” Rose-Ann was saying. “I 
suppose I was a most trying and aggravating girl, and be- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


248 

cause of the misunderstanding I bided my time in quite a 
horrid way. I think, in the depths of me, I was always 
determined to have my way and sometimes, I fear, I had an 
insane desire to get even. ,, 

“You seem to have wanted so little,” Whilla broke in, 
“just a place to play in and enough sunshine to grow in.” 

“I believe that is so, Whilla, but I also know that my 
people honestly think I had more than my share. I did seem 
to be happy, and I expanded, but I had to tussle so for every¬ 
thing, and always against that atmosphere of mental dis¬ 
approval. Sometimes I flared out and said and did things 
that my people expected me to say and do—and really the 
things surprised me horribly—the best of me. I did not 
want to do or say them. My mother-” 

Rose-Ann looked blankly at Whilla and dropped her eyes, 
for the hot tears blinded her. 

Impulsively Whilla stretched out her hand and touched 
Rose-Ann’s knee. 

“I think I understand,” she whispered. “There is always 
at least one who does not have to be explained.” 

“Thank you, Whilla. Mother was like that! There was 
a short time, while she and I were learning to know each 
other, that I was really happy—she filled the empty places 
in my life. 

“She died suddenly. Just before she went, she told me 
things about her own life; such things as women tell other 
women when there is no longer need to keep up a shield. 
She blamed herself for not having expressed herself; she felt 
she had wronged others because she had never let them see her 
as she really was.” 

“Most women feel that way when it is too late,” Whilla 
spoke more to herself than to Rose-Ann. Then again she 
asked an abrupt question: 

“And did you come out into the open—after your mother 
died, Rose-Ann?” 

“I thought I did. I married, and then something hap¬ 
pened and I realized that no one really knew me—I did not 
know myself. That is why I came away.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


249 

The hand resting upon Rose-Ann’s knee gave a slight 
pressure and then withdrew. 

“I wonder how it would have worked out, Rose-Ann, if 
you had made your fight right there where the trouble was?” 

“I could not. You do not understand my people, or me.” 

“Perhaps! But now, Rose-Ann, tell me something about 
Barry Compton. God’s man, as Manville calls him.” 

The name had power to dispel Rose-Ann’s depression. 

“God’s man!” she repeated, “that’s exactly what Barry is 
—though he’d be indignant if he knew any one called him 
that.” 

Whilla got up, laid more wood on the fire, and then came 
back. She saw that Rose-Ann had regained her calm. 

For some time they talked of Compton and then the 
reprieve was over. 

“And now tell me of your husband, Rose-Ann.” The 
quiet question seemed so natural that its effect was startling. 
Rose-Ann recoiled. 

“I cannot!” she said jerkily. “Anything I might say 
would be like bearing false witness—unless you knew my 
husband. He is—well, he is like two people.” 

“Most of us are, Rose-Ann, or like four or five. You 
love your husband? One of his selves?” 

Whilla was gaining control of the situation. She believed, 
with a growing relief, she could afford to be merciless if by 
so doing she could help. It was only when she had feared 
that there was no help that she was afraid to move. 

The sharp, compelling question tore through the shield 
behind which Rose-Ann huddled in her doubts and fears. 

“I don’t know,” she replied, facing that element in Whilla 
that demanded truth—or nothing. 

“That was why I came away. I had never had time to 
know myself and, when something happened, and I saw that 
unless I did know myself I could do nothing but wrong and 
more wrong—I had to come. It was like—saving myself.” 

“I see.” Whilla bent forward and turned her face away 
from Rose-Ann. This trick of hers of speaking intimately 
while thus withdrawing was one of her positive characters- 


250 THE TENTH WOMAN 

tics; a seeming protection when she gave herself most freely 
to others. 

“You risked about everything,” she said slowly, “for the 
one thing you seem to prize above everything else. I 
wonder if it will repay you, Rose-Ann ?” 

“I do not know. I never counted on that, but if I had, 
it would have made no difference. Some things have to be! ,, 

“Yes, that is quite true, Rose-Ann. There are times in 
life when we all know that. Those things neither punish 
nor reward us—but they teach us awful truths.” 

And then Whilla Brookes seemed to forget Rose-Ann. 
Her thoughts wandered back over a hard road; she sank 
wearily in her chair as if physically spent by the effort. 

She had a sudden and vivid realization of what Rose-Ann 
must have meant to Manville. How appealing she must 
have been to one who had suffered and fled from the oppres¬ 
sion so deadly to sensitive, idealistic natures. 

Going back to that environment from which he had be¬ 
lieved himself completely divorced, he had been under the 
old spell of luxury; of Barry Compton; of a girl representing 
the thing he had once had faith in and been hurt by. He 
must have felt as if the present were but a dream and 
that he had awakened! But how had he dealt with the 
situation ? 

That was the question that burned into Whilla Brookes’s 
soul. But from it Rose-Ann veered sharply. 

If Rose-Ann, ignorant, blind, and indifferent to the con¬ 
ventions that had crushed her, instead of protecting her, had 
misunderstood the friendly goodness of Manville—and how 
divinely kind he could be!—If in her fierce resentment of 
something too deeply felt for expression she had come to 

Manville without considering the cost- At this juncture 

Whilla Brookes turned her grave, wide eyes upon Rose-Ann. 
In that look was all her own brave defence of Manville strug¬ 
gling with her desperate demand for—truth. 

She waited. Would Rose-Ann speak now of Manville? 
Open the secret chamber that held the grim meaning that 
must direct the future? 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


251 

But Rose-Ann, white and weary, simply shook her head as 
if refusing the unspoken appeal. 

“I—I cannot talk any more to-night,” she said; “I am 
so tired that I feel—ill.” She got up slowly, stepped toward 
Whilla, then retreated: 

“Oh!” she cried piteously, “I cannot see my way out in 
any direction. But there must be a way; there always is. 
Please try to—to keep kind to me—until I can prove myself 
worthy of your kindness.” 

They seemed, for that instant, spiritually to draw closer; 
to come to a clearer understanding. Manville was brushed 
aside, ignored. They were just two women stranded and 
recognizing the necessity of interdependence. 

“Good-night, Rose-Ann!” 

“Good-night, Whilla!” 

Side by side they crossed the room. The shadows at the 
far end closed about them. Then they parted—entered their 
bedchambers and for the first time shut their doors! They 
did so cautiously, soundlessly, but each sought solitude that 
only complete detachment could give. 

In her dim, cold room, Rose-Ann undressed and was con¬ 
scious again of that sensation of physical illness; with it 
reared the ugly, hideous doubt as to Whilla Brookes’s rela¬ 
tions to Manville. It seemed only to have been biding its 
time, but, thank Heaven! it now had lost any actual power 
over her. She could deal with it sanely, intelligently, and 
detached from the prejudices of her inheritance. She no 
longer recoiled. A certain wonder grew in her confused 
thoughts. 

Suppose it were so—the thing she doubted? Seen by 
the flare, that this question spread over the situation, Whilla 
Brookes took on majestic lines, while Rose-Ann herself 
shrivelled. 

“Thinking what she must of me,” Rose-Ann held herself 
relentlessly in the light, “how can she be so wonderful? 

And in her dark room Whilla Brookes kept her lonely 
vigil with little to comfort her. 

She had no prejudices to overcome, and few illusions to 


252 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


blind her—but she still gripped her faith in Manville. She 
knew women and she knew men; she weighed the pros and 
cons and then, toward morning she vowed to her all but 
beaten self one solemn vow: 

“I will not take another step until I know just what has 
occurred.” 

The morning found both women exhausted and reserved. 
They reacted from the intimacy of the night before with 
painful silences, broken by determined attempts to readjust 
conditions to the deadly plane upon which, for the past week, 
they had been living. 

Whilla succeeded better than Rose-Ann. After breakfast 
she suggested that they start on horseback with the men to 
track some horses that had got away in the night. 

“It will keep us in the open,” she said, “and I’m sure if you 
take the horse you have been riding you can manage easily 
to keep up with us. If at any time you care to return, or 
drop behind, we’ll set you on the trail.” 

“Oh! I would love to go,” Rose-Ann replied enthusias¬ 
tically; “and I can find my way about. You must not have 
me on your mind at all. If I begin to drag I’ll come 
back.” 

This expedition would postpone the half-formed plan Rose- 
Ann had made at daybreak. In that hour she had vowed to 
leave the Lone Two as soon as possible. Where she was to go 
she had not decided—a day out of doors would give her 
vision, perhaps. It surely would secure solitude of a kind 
that would strengthen, not weaken, her resolve. Manville’s 
house stifled her, but the vast spaces offered peace and she 
felt, now, that she could never confide further in Whilla 
Brookes. 

It meant only injustice to others. Still, to withhold any 
confidence from one who had done what Whilla had for her, 
and remain under the same roof with her, was equally im¬ 
possible. The snarl was too hopeless for words to undo. 

“ I must go away. Letters will come in a week or so and 
then-” 

At that moment Barry Compton rose supreme. Once he 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


253 


knew where she was, Rose-Ann felt he would help. She 
knew suddenly that she had been relying on this all along! 

It was a mountain day. The sky seemed near enough to 
touch; the peaks appeared but a mile away. The snow 
patches gleamed and glistened, and the air tingled with life. 
Through the tall pines they galloped; the sweet, crushed 
needles gave up their delicate scent—then out into the 
sparsely wooded spaces, on, on to the timber line. 

They were following the hoof marks of the straying animals; 
sometimes Rose-Ann detected them. This excited her 
greatly and made the others laugh. But the prints often 
turned upon themselves or were obliterated by the carpet of 
needles. 

Then came the barren open space. Burned timber, 
standing gaunt and black with crazy ghost-arms stretched 
pleadingly up to heaven from hell. 

At noonday they stopped to eat a nourishing but meagre 
meal, then on again, for Whilla had at last detected prints in 
the soil that she felt sure were the right ones. 

At four o’clock, with nothing but bare rocks around them 
and the rough trail winding in and out, Rose-Ann said that 
she would dismount and wait for them. 

“Fm tired,” she confessed. 

“That’s all right,” Whilla replied; “it’s open and safe here; 
the sun has warmed the rocks. 

“We’ll be back in another hour with or without the beasts. 
There’s a moon to-night, anyway; it will be rather fine to 
make the return late. You’d enjoy the experience^ Rose- 
Ann; but if you do not want to wait, go on—the trail’s easy 
to follow.” 

The exercise in the open had brought to Whilla Brookes a 
strange calm that only the soul-lover of the wilds can under¬ 
stand. Nothing seemed great enough to kill the peace in 
her that was not dependent upon the physical, but which 
drew, for its strength, upon what only Nature gives her chosen 
ones. Indeed, for hours she had not thought about the 
struggle of the previous night; the joy in her had conquered 
the fear; driven it from the field. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


254 

And Rose-Ann, left to herself on the warm sun-bathed 
rocks, felt, too, the sudden control of a force that seemed to 
lift her into space where no other soul held part. 

She could see for miles in every direction. She was not 
lonely or afraid; she felt singularly free and, as her hand 
touched, accidentally, the pistol at her belt, she smiled. 

Whilla had insisted upon the weapon and some lessons in 
its use, from young Dingley, as a necessary equipment for 
“one of the outfit.” 

“I wonder,” mused Rose-Ann, stretching herself luxur¬ 
iously upon her back, “what they would think of me—back 
there ?” 

As often happens, when mind and body are relaxed, 
thought flooded the brain. “Back there” broke down the 
barrier behind which Rose-Ann had been living for weeks, 
and such a sudden, blighting wave of homesickness over¬ 
whelmed her that she rolled over, and with her face upon her 
folded arms, wept aloud. 

She was free—but beaten! For her, there seemed to be 
no “back there” and the future was as desolate and empty 
as the silent spaces surrounding her. 

And then, like a bit of driftwood borne upon the stream 
that was engulfing her, Rose-Ann recalled her father’s words, 
spoken long ago in reference to Aunt Theodora: 

“A woman never returns after doing what she has done.” 

Now, though Rose-Ann had been shaken from the insecure 
harbour whence her rebellion had driven her, she had been 
surely carried to a safer, saner point of vantage. With the 
memory of the hard words of her father came sanctifying and 
saving strength. 

She sat up and, gathering her knees in her arms, faced the 
sunlighted world. She felt alone in a place but just created. 
A place that had heard only the command: “Let there be 
light.” And to which it had replied “and there was 
light!” 

There was light—light everywhere! 

The tears dried on Rose-Ann’s cheeks, her eyes widened 
and darkened. Something tremendous seemed to be hap- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


255 

pening to her. She was being bom, a new woman into the 
new world, and she was filled with courage and vision. 

“We must go back!” She spoke the words aloud as if to 
convince her old, desolate self, and her thought was of Aunt 
Theodora and her defeat. “We must go back and live; not 
die! They shall not kill us—women can go back!” 

And then Rose-Ann, quite subconsciously at first, then 
more consciously, began to plan. 

Full well she knew that she must be judged by appearances; 
by what she had seemed to do. The unrelenting code did 
not recognize possibilities of weakness in itself. She thought 
of Aunt Theodora’s neglected grave; of shuttered and shaded 
New England houses in which broken lives were lived out 
drearily, uncomplainingly. Rose-Ann’s heart ached with 
understanding and pity. 

Her old spirit rose triumphantly over the spell of depres¬ 
sion. She had her mother’s money and her own; not as a 
supplicant would she return. No! she would simply take 
her place; live her life and wait. 

There would be Barry; and by and by—who could tell? 
Only there is no other way. “We must go back!” 

And because the repetition of the words seemed to hypno¬ 
tize her, Rose-Ann stretched her tired body on the rocks and 
fell asleep. 

She slept an hour or more, then suddenly started up. At 
first she thought that she still dreamed. Great billows of 
fog—or cloud—were rolling up, wiping out her world, all 
worlds, as they came. They looked, presently, more like 
smoke, for the setting sun filled them with a dull flame 
colour. 

Overhead a great eagle swooped and circled—he had been 
investigating the strange thing on the rocks! 

The patient horse stood near, his eyes upon Rose-Ann. 
While he could see her, he knew no fear. 

Rose-Ann, frightened and bewildered, got upon her feet; 
then she mounted the horse, patting and reassuring him. 
“Let us try!” she whispered through chattering teeth, “we 
must try to make the return before—we’re blotted out.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


256 

Slowly they descended, and were at once enveloped in the 
cold, damp billows. The horse put his feet down gingerly, 
delicately; he was feeling his way, guided by that sense that 
God gives as a compensation to His lesser creatures. 

Rose-Ann had wisdom enough to let the lines lie loose upon 
the horse's neck while her trembling, cold hands patted the 
faithful beast. It seemed hours that they silently moved 
through the mists, and then Rose-Ann smelled burning wood; 
heard movements in the near distance. 

She called and waited. The mists were clearing; the 
odour and sound were at hand and then—oh! blessed sight, 
she saw a small fire in the opening between two boulders, and 
a man crouching near it. His head was lifted—he had heard 
Rose-Ann’s call. 

When she saw him she urged her tired horse on and the 
man rose to meet her. 

“I thought," he said, helping her to dismount, “that the 
call could not be human; it did not seem earthly. The fog 
is passing, we can go on in a few minutes—the fire is all I 
have to offer, but it is at your disposal." 

“It is a gift of God!" Rose-Ann replied, and sank beside 
it. 

The man was watching her closely. 

“Unless," he said, “we want to pose as—as Adam and Eve 
brought up to date, we may as well introduce ourselves. 
I'm John Donaldson, a prospector from Denver. Just nosing 
about and, as you see, not keen on trails. I’m a good deal of 
a duffer, too, as to weather signs." 

The name meant nothing to Rose-Ann, she simply nodded 
in a friendly way to her fellow creature in distress. 

“I'm—I'm Mrs. Braintree," she confided frankly; “I’m— 
I'm staying at the Lone Two Ranch. Pm—a duffer, too!" 

For some reason this statement had a peculiar effect upon 
the man by the fire. What was running through his mind was 
a conversation he had heard the night before where some men, 
drinking and hilarious, had set scandal free by a campfire. 

Donaldson had fallen in with the men after an encounter 
with Whilla Brookes’s representatives. They had come upon 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


257 

him lurking about the LoneTwo mines; had used rather rough 
language while ordering him off the property, and had sug¬ 
gested that a second meeting might be bad for his health. 

Defeated and revengeful, he had listened, later, to the 
gossip with relish. It gratified him to realize that Manville 
was not backed by the entire community. 

“Say, what's Manville starting up to his ranch, anyway?" 
one fellow, drunker than the others, had asked. “A harem, 
by God?" 

“Great guy, Manville! Keeping in the dark about his 
affairs—mines, women, and all the rest. Gone off now, 
hasn’t he? Letting the women settle inter shape, eh? 
Fighting it out between ’em?" This from a second. 

“I tell yer, fellows, this here Wild West is the place to live 
the life. 

“Now number one, up to Manville’s cabin, isn’t going to 
be bounced, I bet. She looks as if she could hold the fort; 
and number two don’t know the way back home apparently, 
or she may have Manville on a leash, being younger and 
fitter. Queer mess, I say." 

Donaldson recalled the conversation clearly now. Some¬ 
one had asked next: 

“Who was number one back in civilization?" 

“Oh! a dame whose man flung her off and wouldn’t listen 
to reason. Wouldn’t divorce her, I heard." 

“And number two—where’s her home town?" 

“The Lord knows. Somewhere back East. She’s kicked 
the traces, too, like as not. She’s a Mrs., all right. Guess 
she just broke loose and took her chances by hounding Man¬ 
ville to his lair, with whatever she’s got on him." 

It was an ugly, dirty conversation. Donaldson had 
known that at the time, but in a subtle way the meaning of 
it affected his attitude toward Rose-Ann now. A certain 
restraint was loosened. 

The talk that followed was freer; a new tone marked it that 
presently irritated Rose-Ann. 

“Let us push on," she said, and rose abruptly; “the fog— 
why, it is gone!" 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


258 

“There’s to be a moon—Tve ordered it,” Donaldson added 
familiarly; “it would be something for us to remember—the 
ride down in the moonlight.” 

“Well, let us begin to make the memory.” Rose-Ann felt 
a vague unrest; but, once on her horse, she regained her poise, 
and oddly enough her hand, touching her revolver at her 
belt, grew steadier. 

The sun had set, but in the open stretches the gold light 
lingered. The hungry horses, with heads set toward home, 
galloped on without urging. Rose-Ann was never able after 
to remember distinctly what happened in detail, but Donald¬ 
son said something that caused her face to flame and her 
nerves to tingle. She responded with fierce anger added to 
by a fear she had never known before in her sheltered life. 

She turned upon the man at her side and flung some hurting, 
bruising truths in his face. 

She heard herself defending Whilla Brookes hotly, vehe¬ 
mently. Then she rose in defence of Manville. 

But at this juncture Donaldson, smarting with resentment 
and anger, silenced her by a rude jest. 

“What in hell do you take me for?” he said. “What you 
trying to—get over?” 

A man spurned and taunted is subject to the same recoils 
as a woman, and Rose-Ann was, now, prey for all the evil 
in Donaldson’s nature. He realized that she was not what 
he had, in his brutal thought, first imagined; her part in 
Manville’s scheme was different from Whilla Brookes’s— 
that was clear enough, but for that very reason she could be 
hurt more. 

Apparently she was in the dark as to the true state of 
affairs; had come to the ranch ignorant and trusting—well, 
he’d enlighten her and set her wise! 

In the moments that followed Rose-Ann was conscious of 
the hoof beats of the tired horses—she lashed her own horse 
to greater effort and Donaldson kept apace;she was conscious, 
too, of hideous words, heavy with a meaning that gave to 
her own weak doubts shape and colour. She was knowing 
truth in its baldest, nakedest form. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


259 


And then the man beside her, breathing quick and hard, 
took a new position. He seemed to be with her; not against 
her. While Whilla Brookes was outcast—a creature for 
any man’s fancy, she was—of the select even while she was 
attacked by ugly brutality. 

“Does Manville know that you are here?” Donaldson 
was abreast of Rose-Ann; his insolent face smiling. 

“ No!” The word was accompanied by a look of contempt. 

Donaldson laughed aloud. 

“I thought so. You just came a-visiting without warn¬ 
ing; with all your nice, clean little ideas of Manville packed 
up in your kit. Men like Manville have an Eastern and a 
Western code. See here, Mrs. Braintree, this is none of my 
business, I know, but ask this—this Mrs. Brookes—a few 
questions to-night. If I’m wrong I’m ready to beg her 
pardon and your mercy. 

“God! a man can’t see a thing like this pulled off without 
trying to save a woman like—you. I’m a stranger in these 
parts, but I’ve heard enough. Manville’s whole outfit is 
common talk, and to think you were let in for this while he 
is—away!” 

Rose-Ann plunged ahead. Her jaded horse had got his 
second wind and home was in sight! 

Then, when safety was at hand, Rose-Ann drew up sharply 
and turned a white, haggard face on Donaldson. 

“I did not know such vile men as you lived,” she said. 
“There is some reason for your doing what you have done 
and—and when I tell Mrs. Brookes about you, I hope she will 
let her people loose on you as she would upon a dangerous 
beast.” 

Donaldson jerked his horse’s head around and muttered an 
ugly word—then Rose-Ann was alone! Trembling and 
faint, she reached the cabin and dismounted. 

As she staggered toward the house the door opened 
and Whilla Brookes, attended by young Dingley, came 
forth. 

“Oh, but I am glad to see you,” Whilla cried, rushing to 
her, “we were about to start out to ride the ranges. You’ve 


26 o 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


given us a big scare and yourself, too, I fear”; her arms were 
around Rose-Ann. 

“Come, come, child! You’re all right now”; for Rose- 
Ann was struggling with a desire to sob aloud; “there’s a 
letter for you—good news, I hope, but you shall not read a 
word until you’ve eaten. 

“Hurry in, Dingley, and see that things are ready.” 

Rose-Ann followed instructions weakly. She let Whilla 
make her comfortable; she glanced at the letter—it was from 
the Boston lawyer!—and she ate the hot, stimulating food, 
but she was in a strange state of mind. It was like being in 
the fog that had earlier swallowed her—she was dreaming 
still; she could not rid herself of that impression. 


CHAPTER XIX 


B Y THE time the meal was eaten and cleared away 
Rose-Ann began to feel more like herself. She 
laughed at her collapse and then told of meeting the 
man—Donaldson. At the sound of that name, Whilla 
Brookes, who was bending over the fire with a log in her 
hand, turned sharply. 

“Donaldson?” she repeated. Then: “Did he frighten 
you, Rose-Ann ?” 

“No.” Slowly, cautiously Rose-Ann measured her words. 
“He shared his fire, and guided me to within sight of the 
cabin. I think my fright was due to my own bugaboos—the 
fog was terrible; it was like being part of the ocean.” 

“Donaldson”—Whilla Brookes turned back to the fire—• 
“has been hanging about the Lone Two mines. The boys 
had an encounter with him the other day; drove him off, in 
fact. He might have done some harm in revenge—but 
hardly to you. I’m a bit shaken myself.” 

She let the log fall on the red embers and returned to her 
chair beside Rose-Ann. 

“I’m glad he’s decenter than he might have been,” she 
said. “Did he know who you were, Rose-Ann, before he 
saw where you were coming?” 

“Yes. I told him. We had to talk a little as—we rode 
down.” 

A tone of relief was in Rose-Ann’s voice. As in a broad 
flash of light—her fears melted away. She recalled the night 
when Dingley sang, and Whilla was warned of the prowler 
near the Lone Two mines. She connected that with the 
recent encounter with Whilla’s men. 

“Of course!” she thought; “but how dared he! How 

261 


262 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


could he be so—vile? Still it accounts for him. I knew 
there was something!” 

With the relief came a rallying of all her forces. Nothing 
seemed really to matter, after all—she was going home; 
going back to her place with a memory of Whilla’s goodness— 
nothing could take that from her. Except for Whilla’s 
goodness things might have been terrible. Whilla had 
accepted her—without question. She could accept Whilla on 
the same terms. A great danger had been passed—they 
were safe; she and Whilla! Presently things would be in 
Manville’s house as they had been before her madness had 
brought her to his doors. Whilla’s goodness; goodness! 

That was supreme. Barry had once said that one could be 
peeled like—what was it? oh! an artichoke—before reaching 
the real person. And even—Rose-Ann was looking dreamily 
at Whilla as she sat drooping in her chair, the firelight playing 

over her—even if-Well! the goodness remained. The 

goodness was Whilla! 

She could always hold to that. She knew and understood 
as she knew and understood about those other women in 
Middle Essex—women hiding behind shuttered windows; 
women whose souls were penned by a cruel law that worked 
only evil and suffering. Her experience had given her a deep 
understanding. 

Whilla’s soul was free. Whilla was good. Manville had 

not killed the goodness in Whilla no matter- A quick, 

indrawn breath startled Whilla. 

“I thought you were asleep,” she said, looking keenly into 
the wide, dark-rimmed eyes. 

“I must have been, and I dreamed.” 

“A frightening dream?” 

“No. A good one. I am quite all right now, Whilla. 
But I’m tired—I must go to bed.” 

“You have not read your letter.” Whilla glanced at the 
envelope lying under Rose-Ann’s clasped hands. She was 
curious about it; was counting on the effect of its contents. 

“It is only business. It is from my lawyer.” 

Rose-Ann looked at it wearily. It had disappointed her 



THE TENTH WOMAN 263 

cruelly—she had felt that Barry, once he knew of her where¬ 
abouts, would have written. 

“Still,” Rose-Ann went on, “I must see what he has to 
say.” 

As she opened the envelope an enclosure dropped from it 
which Whilla picked up, holding it until it was wanted. 

The room was so quiet that the crackling of the logs, the 
ticking of the clock, sounded explosive. 

It is said that when a surgeon thrusts his knife into an 
unconscious patient there is an involuntary shrinking of the 
muscles—as if the spirit were recoiling from the hurt done to 
the body. 

And so Rose-Ann, now, shuddered and lifted her terrified 
eyes to Whilla Brookes. She did not feel pain and her mind 
had never been clearer, more alert. 

“Barry Compton is dead!” she said in a voice that brought 
Whilla to her feet. 

“Dead! He—he killed himself because—he could not stand 
life any longer. His will—is in that envelope you have, 
Whilla—and his letter to me. I—I cannot read them now.” 

Rose-Ann tried to reach for the package in Whilla’s hands, 
but her own dropped nervelessly. 

“Barry,” she repeated as if Whilla must be made to under¬ 
stand. “Barry, you know—Barry Compton.” 

Pressing her hands on the arms of her chair, Rose-Ann 
struggled to her feet. As she stood so, twisted and unsteady, 
her eyes dark and vague, she made a tragic appeal to Whilla 
Brookes. She looked terribly ill, too, and this added fear to 
all other emotions. 

The little that she really knew of Rose-Ann’s trouble, the 
reticence that had shielded the intimate facts combined, now, 
to bewilder and alarm Whilla. She realized, too, that almost 
unconsciously she had relied upon Barry Compton—the 
friend of Manville and Rose-Ann. 

His death shattered a very definite hold she had had upon 
the intangible situation that had so disordered her life. Still 
the one absorbing thought at the moment was, that Rose- 
Ann looked desperately ill and that something must be done. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


264 

“Oh! I wish I could help you, Rose-Ann, ,, she said, and 
came nearer. “What can I do?” 

“Nothing, Whilla. I must be alone and try to think. 
Isn’t it queer how one can know things and not be able to 
think them?” 

Rose-Ann began to move unsteadily toward her bedroom 
door. 

“Let me sleep in your room, Rose-Ann!” Whilla pleaded, 
but started back at Rose-Ann’s laugh and words. 

“Sleep? Sleep, Whilla? Why—I am not going to 
sleep—I must think.” Then more calmly: “I will call you— 
if I need anything.” 

“You promise, Rose-Ann?” 

“Yes.” The door was reached and opened; almost 
apologetically it was closed, and Whilla stood alone in the 
centre of the room which suddenly seemed strange and fear- 
somely empty. 

Mechanically she walked back to the fire, and sitting down 
drew from her pocket a letter about which she had said 
nothing. It was from Africa; from Manville. 

Almost as if it were the possession of another with which 
she had no right, she tore it open and read. 

Manville had secured his man! The written words seemed 
to convey Manville’s exaltation and then he ran on boyishly, 
confidently, in quite the simple, frank way that made his 
letters so like himself: 

I’m going to investigate the work here—it will take the best part 
of this year, but it will make a second trip unnecessary and that’s the 
big thing. 

I’ve tasted the fruit of victory, my dear; I see my dreams mate¬ 
rializing, but above all else I have learned that nothing can ever 
equal the joy of the vision. The “whisper” Kipling called it. The 
things I heard and saw before they—were. 

There was more. Details of business; confidence in the 
management of his affairs and he was—“always the same old. 
Eric.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


265 

Whilla folded the sheets and returned them to her 
pocket. Then carefully, noiselessly she banked the fire, 
bolted the door, and walked, as a sleep walker might, to 
her bedroom. 

Whilla did not go to bed, though she did take off her gown 
and replace it by a warm house robe. There was a little 
fire on her hearth and she fed it gradually with pine knots 
until the room was in a red glow, and very warm. But 
Whilla was cold; not even when the temperature rose could 
she feel the warmth; nothing seemed to penetrate the clammy 
surface of her flesh. 

The hours passed unheeded; Whilla only moved to lay 
more wood on the hearth—but she was reviewing her life 
with Manville and, in a numb, senseless way trying to make 
herself believe that it was—going on; that nothing was 
changed; while, combating it like another’s reasoning, was 
the knowledge that it was over and ended. 

And in the room beyond Rose-Ann kept her lonely vigil, 
trying hard, hard to think. 

“If I only could feel,” she moaned, “I could bear it better. 
I am suffering, but I cannot feel.” 

It was nearly midnight when, dizzy and faint, she lay down 
upon the bed. 

She had been sitting by the window watching, with unsee¬ 
ing eyes, the moon ride radiantly across the open space be¬ 
tween the pointed pines. The fire on the hearth died down— 
there were only smouldering ashes at last, and a dreary chili 
crept into the room. 

The bed was warm and soft and because Rose-Ann was 
young, her brain refused to receive any further impressions. 
Youth protects itself when life presses too close. 

Sleep, deep dreamless sleep, fell upon her and she did not 
move or, seemingly, breathe. 

Then suddenly she opened her eyes. She was fully 
conscious, but she could not move. The blackness of the 
night was horrible. No “velvet” blackness this, but 
ebony and hard. It bound her; she felt as she might in 
her coffin. 


266 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“Oh! it is like being buried alive,” she faltered, and her 
whisper only frightened her the more. “It’s like being 
buried alive. Oh!” 

Suddenly the blackness outside was slashed by a vivid 
dart of lightning and rumbling thunder shook the hills. 

Rose-Ann sat up in bed—she had broken her bonds; but 
a queer and overpowering horror set her trembling. 

She was remembering something Prudence had once said 
to her—Prudence, of all people! 

“I cannot explain, Rose-Ann, you know I’m not fanciful— 
but it is like God speaking. It’s—awful and wonderful; 
the hidden life—demanding recognition!” 

As Rose-Ann sat shivering upon her bed in the hard dark¬ 
ness, broken now and again by those knife-like, lurid flashes, 
all that had gone before was swept from her hold. Helpless, 
dismayed, she simply repeated: 

“God! God!” as a child calls for help in the dark. And 
then she remembered Whilla Brookes! There was no one 
in all the world but Whilla, and her, and God! Softly she 
got up, put on her robe and slippers, and went to Whilla’s 
door and tapped. 

“Come in!” The prompt, calm command steadied Rose- 
Ann. It was like finding another living creature in a space 
where all else had been blasted. 

“You are ill, Rose-Ann?” Whilla in her long, loose gown 
rose from the hearth and stood, more like a tall angel than 
ever, in the middle of the room. 

“I have a little fire,” she said, piling on more wood. “I 
thought, perhaps—you might come. Sit here. There, now, 
don’t look like that! I'll put this blanket around you, 
Rose-Ann. Listen to me—there’s nothing in the world worth 
—such agony—nothing!” 

Rose-Ann looked up at the woman bending over her; she 
saw the great, enveloping pity and misery in the wide eyes. 
Again she experienced that sense of absolute trust in the 
woman near her that she had felt before. Trust that was 
not founded on what she hoped of her, but trust that had its 
birth in what Whilla was. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 267 

“Poor girl!” Whilla did not move nearer, but she seemed 
to be taking Rose-Ann in her arms. 

“Whilla, I am going to have a child!” 

What Rose-Ann expected she herself did not know, but 
to see Whilla remain standing with that divine light still in 
her eyes was more of a shock than anything that might have 
happened had she recoiled from her. 

“Yes; I know, Rose-Ann.” 

“You know?” 

“Yes. I had suspected. To-night I knew. I know now 
that I always knew.” 

“Whilla, I want to die; I think I shall die!” 

“No, you must not die. You and I must fight this out 
together, Rose-Ann. You and I.” 

“What for?” The absolute defeat in the shaking voice 
reached Whilla’s highest and lowest nature. 

“What for?” she repeated, and gave a hard, cold laugh.— 
“What for? Why, to show what two wronged women can 
do—when they unite forces. We—we trusted him, you and 
I. You, in your fashion; I in mine. With me—he was play¬ 
ing a fair enough game. I had no right to—to morals or—to 
respect, at least he—his kind think that. But I had—we 
all do, we women, we have shreds and patches at least of 
ideals. But you!—how—dared he?” 

Through the flow of this bitter denunciation Rose-Ann 
sat petrified. She tried to speak; to stop the cruel tone and 
words, but her dry tongue and lips seemed to burn the words 
before they were uttered. 

Presently, however, she struggled to her feet—she stag¬ 
gered to Whilla and clutched her arms: 

“Stop!” The word came explosively. 

“Stop! You—you are wrong. My child is not—his. 
Not Eric Manville’s.” 

At this Whilla laughed. 

“You are going to shield him,” she asked, “against me? 
You are not going to be with me? Me?” 

“Whilla, you must listen to me. Look in my eyes! I—I 
believe God is here—here with you and me. I may die—and 


268 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


soon. As I hope for God’s pity, I am telling you the truth. 
My husband is the father of my child! Don’t you see?” 
Here Rose-Ann clung wildly to Whilla. 

“It is so terribly simple and true that it seems impossible, 
but you must believe me—you must! You must let me tell 
you everything—you must listen to me. Sit down. While 
you stand there I am afraid of you.” 

Whilla’s eyes were searching the wide, fear-filled ones 
raised pleadingly to her; without lowering her intense gaze 
she dropped upon the rug before the fire. 

All the false, the unsubstantial foundations upon which 
they two had been living crumbled now, but there was still 
something left; some primitive verities that could either be 
turned to helpfulness—or utter demoralization. What each 
had thought of the other, but had not dared express, flared 
forth now, and between them stood the one man who must 
fie vindicated at whatever cost. 

“Your husband is the father of your child?” Whilla’s 
words came monotonously. “And you left your husband 
for another man?” 

The code of Whilla Brookes, battered and soiled as it was, 
rose protectingly before her, and from it Rose-Ann shrank 
back, covering her face with both hands. 

Whilla Brookes talked on. She seemed to have forgotten 
Rose-Ann and hermisery,her physical need. Sitting upon the 
floor, her knees gathered in her arms, she looked a veritable 
Nemesis bent upon disclosing everything that shrouded the 
truth that must, in some way, make them all free. 

“This—this child,” she asked—“was it—forced upon you? 
Did you hate your husband?” 

“No! I loved him. Above anything I wanted a child— 
back there.” 

“Do you, Rose-Ann, hate your husband now?” 

It sounded like a perverted marriage service. 

“I hate—what he tried to do—to me.” 

The sudden fierceness startled Whilla. 

“He tried to break me—he tried to make me fear what he 
might do to me. He would not let me be myself. His 


THE TENTH WOMAN 269 

silent disapproval was enough, but when he tried his brute 
strength—that ended it!” 

Almost, Whilla believed that it had, so tense and unflinch¬ 
ing were Rose-Ann’s face and tone. 

“ Very well!” she murmured, “but did you think you could 
gain anything by running away? Why did you come here? 
Rose-Ann, what have you done to us all ?” 

The last question bowed Rose-Ann’s head. 

“I want to die!” she moaned piteously. 

“No!” Whilla flung back at her. “No! you do not want 
to die. You must see this thing through.” Then, more 
gently, for the haggard face made its human appeal: “And, 
Rose-Ann, I mean to help you, if you can trust me abso¬ 
lutely.” 

“I do trust you, Whilla. I will do what I can. Oh! can 
you not see how things, not evil in themselves, may look 
black as sin ? Can you not believe that sometimes one has to 
learn, through being driven by the weakness in him—not 
the strength?” 

“Yes, I can see and believe all that, Rose-Ann, but we 
must not learn at another’s expense, we cannot make another 

pay.” 

“Oh! I see that now—I see that.” 

Rose-Ann shivered and instantly Whilla turned and re¬ 
plenished the fire. 

“I would insist upon your going to bed, Rose-Ann,” she 
said, and her white, drawn face was grave and sympathetic— 
“ but I know neither you nor I could go on living even for an 
hour until—we have swept the doubts aside and can begin 
right—for the sake of your child!” 

Rose-Ann sobbed. 

“I am going to tell you something, Rose-Ann, about my¬ 
self, for, when all is said and done, we stand, side by side, 
where Eric Manville is concerned. It’s up to us.” 

Rose-Ann’s sobbing ceased, but she did not recoil. 

“We women can tangle a man’s life until it is—hell,” 
Whilla went on, “but the test comes when we show what we 
are willing to do for him.” 


270 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Rose-Ann longed above all else to repudiate violently the 
part she had played in Eric Manville’s life; it all seemed so 
trivial in the face of present realities, so trivial, and so mad. 
But Whilla Brookes sternly held to her determination. 

“We cannot undo the past, Rose-Ann. We must deal 
with it if we are to have any peace from now on. I know the 
world better than you do—I’ve had to know it at close quar¬ 
ters. A woman does not, even when driven, as you say you 
were, come to a man without some reason for doing so. No 
woman feels as I do, as I have felt since you came to this 
house—without a reason! You must see that. We must 
understand, you and I, for the time has come, as it always 
does in the lives of men and women, when sacrifice counts. 

“I am going to tell you about myself. ,, 

Rose-Ann put her hands out as if warding off a blow, but 
Whilla disregarded them. 

“I’m going to tell you this, because it must weigh with 
you, perhaps more than with me.” 

Whilla’s dark head bent, not as a penitent before its con¬ 
fessor, but as a woman whose crown rested too heavily. 

“I was like you once, Rose-Ann. I had a home, a hus¬ 
band, a child. She was so lovely—my little girl—her name 
was—Helen!” 

This seemed to matter immensely.—“ Helen!” Whilla 
repeated it tenderly. 

“I married for love, Rose-Ann; love as a girl of seventeen 
knows it. He was older; a man of the world with the false 
glamour that so often appeals to the ignorance of a girl. I 
married with a fearful sense of duty—duty such as men, 
some men, teach to women. Duty to them; to their sins even; 
their desires. He had his life apart from mine. I later 
found that out—I forgave; believed again and again. I 
thought, yes, God hearing me—the God you say is here— 
Rose-Ann, I thought I was doing my duty! When my heart 
almost broke, I still had a kind of glory in doing my duty. 

“Then, my sudden awakening came. My little girl was 
stricken with disease; she was paying the awful price of my 
duty! 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


271 

“You do not understand?” For Rose-Ann’s horrified 
eyes searched Whilla’s as, for an instant, she turned. 

“You do not understand? What does our Puritan up¬ 
bringing mean by not telling us all the truth ? It hands down 
its iron virtues—and it forgets that it hands down its secret 
crimes as well. 

“Unto the third and fourth generation, Rose-Ann—what 
does that mean? Oh! we’ll learn some day; some day. 
My—little girl died—my Helen. 

“There was a look in her eyes that I shall never forget—an 
old, old look. At first it seemed to ask why I let her pay? 
And then”— Whilla choked, but struggled on—“just at the 
last—it was the look that the Bible says Christ had on the 
cross—it made me know that she, that little girl, was for¬ 
giving me—because I had not known what I did! 

“But I knew then. My God, how I knew! But something 
of my sense of duty held. When she was dead—my Helen— 
I said I’d stay on and do my duty—as I saw it! There 
should be no other little children with that look in their 
dying eyes. They shouldn’t pay! I refused to be my 
husband’s wife! 

“And then”—Whilla got up suddenly and flung her arms 
above her head— “and then that man who had defied every 
code grew virtuous. Good God! virtuous. And the law 
stood by him—I had deserted him—deserted him. The 
law made him free of me. I had no money to fight him—he 
had seen to that. He held it over me. He would not 
divorce me—that was his revenge-” 

Outside a storm beat against the log house, but neither 
woman noticed it. The low-hanging clouds were full of 
thunder and the lightning cut and darted like some mad 
thing seeking to destroy. Rose-Ann’s physical suffering had 
passed. She was spiritually dominated. Life was being 
revealed. 

Then Whilla came back to the fire. She leaned one arm 
on the shelf above the fireboard and looked down at Rose- 
Ann, whose lifted face was transfigured. In the girlish oyes 
there was an expression of wonder, acceptance. They had 



272 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


looked into the depths; the body was paralyzed by what the 
soul had seen! Rose-Ann did not move—but she smiled 
at Whilla. 

“And then,” Whilla went on evenly, “I let go. I was 
desperate, lonely—I knew how men felt when they justified 
themselves by smashing their own damnable laws. I vowed 
to steal for myself—and let it go at that. 

“I came out here—with a man; a good sort, too. We had 
a cabin up by Black Swan Mine—it’s a good fifty miles from 
here. Manville drifted there—seven years ago. He’d been 
broken on the wheel, too—we all had, and we clung to¬ 
gether. Then my man died—fell, he and Manville into a 
shaft—Manville was not much hurt and I nursed him. 

“And then we kept on together—we made a good working 
team, we prospered. Someone in England was backing 
him; is backing him now—and I—filled in. What we touched 
panned out well and I knew he was happier. 

“He didn’t trust me at first—men don’t, you know, even 
when they say they do—to hold you! I did not try to make 
him trust by talk. I was necessary to him; I saw that and 
I got to—to placing him where better women place God—for 
he was so kind; so kind, and he never dragged me down. 

“Rose-Ann, he’s God’s man, though you may not think 
it. I didn’t, when I thought he’d harmed you. That was 
what crazed me to-night. You’ve given him back to me— 
that’s what you’ve done. And now we can play fair. 

“He doesn’t know, but I’ve fended men off", the men, 
wolves, with a pistol. I thought it was one of them the 
night you came. Such as I was, I’ve kept myself, for Man¬ 
ville. After a time, he wanted to marry me—make me 
respectable!” Whilla gave a laugh that hurt, as a child’s 
sob does. “As if he could! As if any man could make a 
woman respectable! 

“I’d have been base enough had I let him. That was my 
code—always the open door for us; the open door and the 
free road. And then—you came. 

“It’s all right, Rose-Ann, here we are, you and I. We’ll 
keep together—Manville will not be back for months—I 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


273 


had a letter to-day. When he comes, he must choose; and 
you, Rose-Ann, you and I must stand as women do—when a 
big love gets them. Tve had my day—he’s cleaned up my 
soul where another man fouled it. He’s made it possible for 
me to believe in men—and for me that meant redemption. 

“That’s all, Rose-Ann, except your little child. We’ve 
got to make it safe or there’ll be no peace for either of us, 
Rose-Ann!” 

Never was Whilla to forget the face of Rose-Ann at that 
moment. There was no need of words; there never is when 
souls are bare. 

“Whilla, Whilla! Oh, my God! to think that I, from my 
silly desire for—for my freedom—should have brought about 
this terrible thing. 

“Why, I used myself to hurt my husband. I hardly 
thought of Eric Manville in the way you think—I was mad, 
and like a child I took the sacredest things at hand to—to 
hurt with. I did not count the cost—I only dealt the blow. 
And this, this has come of it—this!” 

And then, as a flower wilts when a blighting frost strikes 
it, Rose-Ann sank in her chair—her closed eyes and her 
blank face struck fear to the heart of Whilla Brookes. 


CHAPTER XX 


T HE weeks and months that followed the night of con¬ 
fessions and storm Rose-Ann was always to believe 
were the ones that gave her, for ever, possession of 
herself. In them she suffered, but to grow in strength and 
purpose. Her old self was torn to shreds and left helpless, 
but her new self rose supreme. 

With all her innate prejudices of right and wrong, good and 
bad, shattered, she at last saw Whilla and Manville as big 
souls who had escaped the furnace, bearing no odour of fire 
upon them. 

And yet, calm and at last ready to accept and plan her life, 
she knew that she was not as they were; that which had gone 
into her making could not be discounted and cast aside. As 
one may regard the native of another, perhaps a fairer, 
country, equal and greatly to be admired, but still a stran¬ 
ger to him, so Rose-Ann felt toward Whilla and Manville. 
They were not of her country—that was all. Life’s ex¬ 
perience had carried them to a haven apart from hers. 

“My dear,” Whilla had said to her two days after the night 
of confession, “I cannot advise you to go back to your 
people now.” 

Rose-Ann had, between her intervals of physical weakness, 
laid all that remained of her own pitiful past bare to the 
woman who watched and tended her; “and I do not agree 
with you—now that I see the whole thing—that it is so small 
a trouble that drove you forth. It is a very real and bitter 
thing that would kill love sooner or later. Had your husband 
shown one inclination to meet you by acknowledging his 
wrong, I would feel different.” 

“He could not, thinking what he does of me,” Rose-Ann 
broke in. 


274 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


275 

“But he must have time to think it out—if it is in him to 
think back to himself,” Whilla insisted. “Were you to go 
now, he never could, never! 

“It is that spectre—oh! I know it—that shields him from 
himself, but lays you bare, that would do again what it has 
done now. 

“No, Rose-Ann—leave things to that God of yours for a 
time. You have a big job on hand—live here in peace; 
patience—and when you have your child and yourself, go 
back.” 

And to this reasoning Rose-Ann listened. She was weak 
and spent; the courage of her day on the sun-warmed rocks 
was gone. To go home and make her place now, to go 
back with no Barry Compton to sustain her while she 
made her fight for reinstatement on safer, juster terms, was 
impossible. 

There was bitter truth, too, in what Whilla said. Her 
people knew now where she was—and their silence sealed 
the present. She must make her struggle for her child—that 
was the only thing that she could do to retrieve the folly of 
the past. She was comforted, too, by the knowledge that 
her condition had been responsible for much of her madness, 
and she must guard against further mistakes which would 
certainly occur were she to seek, in her present state, to reach 
an understanding. 

No, she must rest, wait, and the only thing that roused 
fear in her was Manville’s possible return. 

“He never would come without warning,” Whilla re¬ 
assured her—“and each mail brings letters.” 

And so, as one meets the inevitable with a calm born of 
resignation, Rose-Ann ceased to struggle and gave her 
thought to the little life that had had its beginning in love 
and faith and must look to her for its safe return to them. 

There were hours, however, when the dull reprieve from 
suffering left Rose-Ann incapable of rising above the fears 
that haunted her. 

“If I should die, Whilla,” she said one evening as they sat 
before the fire, “and some women do, you know—I want 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


276 

you to take my baby home and tell my husband. Some¬ 
times I think that is the one way out.” 

“Good Lord!” Whilla exclaimed; “how we women do look 
to death to solve our problems for us. It’s your heredity, 
my dear, that makes such a coward of you. It’s been the 
curse of women. They fight up to a certain point and then 
fly the white flag. 

“You are not going to die and you’re going to see this 
through!” Then, after a moment of reflection: 

“See here, there’s a woman at Bear Creek who I was 
going to send for later—but I’m going to get her here now to 
pump some common sense into you, my dear. She has 
never lost a mother or child, and she has a slogan that has 
made her famous: ‘God, who made burdens, made backs.’ 
She will bring you to terms, Rose-Ann.” 

The truth was that Whilla Brookes was feeling the strain 
she had submitted herself to. Do what she would—and she 
brought to bear all the facts as she now knew them—there 
were hours when she faced the day of Manville’s return, and 
his knowing of what had occurred, with positive terror. 

Rose-Ann might sincerely believe what she had said—and 
Whilla did not doubt that; but the vital truth remained that 
in her hour of revolt it was to Manville that she had turned. 
What had occurred to make her use that weapon for her 
threat? 

And Manville—how would it affect him, this strange, un¬ 
thinkable thing with its piteous, tragic setting? 

If the hardness of the Puritan mind refused to accept 
Rose-Ann; if it left her and her child stranded—how would 
that affect Manville? 

And so, torn and driven from her course by her own doubts, 
Whilla sent for Aunty Day. 

The blessed soul came within a week. She came riding 
astride a husky mule. Her clothing was rough but pictu¬ 
resque; her face bore the marks of contact with a life that had 
never been made gentle for her, but God had kept her eyes for 
His own purposes. Through them He seemed to look with 
deep and abiding love and faith. Into those eyes little 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


2 77 

children smiled, and in them sinners found that expression 
that was—absolution. 

“Let me have a corner to myself,” she had demanded of 
Whilla when she arrived; “there are times when I’m best 
alone.” 

And so Whilla gave her a cabin close to Rose-Ann’s bed¬ 
room window. 

“Good!” she had exclaimed; “and when she wants me 
she’ll set a candle on the casement and I can trot over and 
no one be the wiser.” 

With that she went into her cabin and, an hour later, came 
up to Whilla’s in clean brown linen and an air of capable 
cheerfulness that purified the dulness at once. 

“Well,” she said, “what is it, my dear? Just get on your 
feet and come here.” 

Whilla, who was alone, sprang up and stretched out her 
hands. 

“This case is too big for me!” she cried, and her eyes were 
full of terror. 

“All right—the two of us can tackle it—God bucking us 
up. Where is she?” 

Whilla nodded toward Rose-Ann’s door. 

“She’s sleeping now,” she whispered. 

The fierce, quick words struck the older woman as 
a cry from a hurt child might have done. She knew a 
good deal about Rose-Ann—the telepathy of the hills 
had included her—but she knew more about Whilla 
Brookes. 

“There, there,” she murmured, patting Whilla’s arm; 
“don’t forget. God and burdens and backs!” 

When Rose-Ann awakened it was midnight and a high, dry 
wind was beating against the cabin from the northwest. A 
candle flickered as if it heard the wind it could not feel and 
before the cheerful hearth a woman sat. 

“Whilla!” Rose-Ann raised herself slowly and turned 
her tear-stained face to the firelight. 

Aunty Day came across the room and—looked at Rose- 
Ann. 


278 THE TENTH WOMAN 

Presently the girl’s arms reached out and the older woman 
bent close. 

“I am so frightened,” whispered Rose-Ann. “I know who 
you are—and why you have come. Oh! I am so afraid.” 

Aunty Day crooned her slogan and soothed the girl in her 
arms. 

“Besides,” she said, “nothing’s going to happen now. I 
just chanced getting here before a storm. My cabin is right 
off there”— she nodded toward the window; “and I’m going 
over there now to get a good night’s sleep—if you want me— 
put your candle in the casement—there’s something in me 
that doesn’t sleep; that keeps watch!” 

Rose-Ann rallied from the hour of Aunty Day’s coming. 

The autumn faded and winter brooded on the peaks. A 
white, still winter that shut them away close from all the 
world. Occasionally the stage rumbled up and later the 
stage became a sled—it was their only link with the outside. 

The three women and the men of the ranch were a small, 
loyal group, and though no one spoke of it, the coming of a 
little child made them tender and kind. Rose-Ann was the 
centre of the isolated family. Around the fire they waxed 
jolly—for her sake. When she smiled their hearts rose in 
triumph—and she smiled sturdily. For her entertainment 
the merriest tales were told and the rough fellows, coming in 
from their tasks outside, danced and sang. 

She grew to understand it all, at length, and valiantly did 
her share. 

“That’s the girl!” Aunty Day exclaimed, “and it’s all 
telling, you may be sure. God and burdens and backs! 
And the baby being educated, as you might say, before it 
comes.” 

At Christmas, from out the depths of the snow, the boys 
brought a tree. Whilla had done the rest, and the day before 
Christmas the sled-stage came breaking through the drifts. 
No one ever forgot that Christmas eve. The little tree 
flashed; there were songs and dances and a jolly supper. 
Gifts and jokes—and Rose-Ann felt exalted by the meaning 
of it all. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


279 


But that night—she gropingly set her candle in her case¬ 
ment! And that which did not sleep in Aunty Day gave 
the alarm. 

“Too soon by two months,” Aunty Day whispered to 
Whilla, “but the Lord ain’t losing sight of that fact.” 

The winter night was still and white and a great blazing 
star stood over the log house as if to mark the place. 

Through the hours of torture Rose-Ann clung to the firm 
hand that was always close. Hour after hour the quiet, 
elderly woman and Whilla Brookes shared the strange vigil. 

When there was a space of peace, Rose-Ann seemed dream¬ 
ing of Prudence, but it was Aunty Day that she saw. 

And then she drifted, far, far—and when she looked back 
from her great distance, it was Braintree who seemed to 
stand close by the bed, where once Rose-Ann had rested, but 
where now a strange woman lay! Braintree was asking her— 
that strange, still woman, for his child! 

And she was trying to lift it up to him—such a small, 
light burden, but her arms were weak. 

And then, up to the place where Rose-Ann was, came a call. 
A pitiful, whining call. Somewhere she had heard that call 
before. It was when she had stood outside Prudence’s door, 
waiting, and baby Faith had made her plea. 

Down, down from the great height came Rose-Ann. She 
felt her way through the darkness; often she seemed to be 
battling with something that was trying to hold her back. 
Then : 

“Rose-Ann! dear heart!” 

It was Whilla who spoke, and her tear-wet face was close; 
close and beseeching. 

“Yes!” Rose-Ann whispered; “I’m here, Whilla.” 

“And so is your little girl, my child, your baby!” 

That was Aunty Day’s voice, of course, but what could she 
mean ? 

“I think”—Whilla was speaking—“I think if you put the 
baby where she can touch it, it would hold her. Quick, 
Aunty Day, quick!” 

And then, just as Rose-Ann was floating back again to 


28 o 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


her far high place, her hand, guided by Whilla’s, touched a 
soft, warm body. A thrill spread over Rose-Ann—it was 
life; the tide had turned. That contact held—it Was the 
world’s way of holding women. 

“My baby.” 

Rose-Ann had accepted her child. 

It was slow but safe sailing after that. The winter passed 
quickly, and the spring edged in wherever it could. The 
snow melted and the winds were soft; the birds began to sing 
and the bravest of the flowers took matters in their own 
hands—and pushed up to the glad, open sky. 

Rose-Ann’s baby was a beautiful baby and made up for its 
hurried appearance by a sweet goodness that seemed to say: 

“I will make as little trouble as possible for any incon¬ 
venience I may have caused.” 

She was “Baby” indoors and out. The youngest creature 
of stable or shed—was “Baby’s”; the newest kitten and 
puppy were hers—all of their best was “Baby’s.” 

“But she’ll have to have a name,” Whilla said one day. 
“I hate to have anything nameless.” 

“I am thinking of that,” Rose-Ann said, and she looked like 
a snowflower with the sunrise on it. 

And then, a week later, she looked at Whilla sitting with 
the baby on her breast. The grave face above the little 
sleeping one was majestic in its expression of maternity that 
had been called to renounce so much. 

Near, and moving about like a benign spirit, was Aunty 
Day. These two women, at that moment, stood alone, and 
like protecting angels, to Rose-Ann. 

“Helen Braintree!” she murmured. She did not realize 
that she spoke aloud, she was trying to familiarize herself 
with the new name. 

“Helen Braintree!” 

Whilla looked up and her face flamed as if a fire were 
behind it. Aunty Day stood still and—looked! 

. “That is my baby’s name,” Rose-Ann said steadily; “and 
the strength of the hills is in it. It sounds big and kind and 
brave and sunny. It is wonderful.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


281 

Without a word Whilla got up and came, bearing the baby, 
to Rose-Ann. She laid the child in the mother’s uplifted arms 
and, bending, pressed her lips to Rose-Ann’s ruddy hair. 
That was all. But in the act were consecration and gratitude. 

It was in May that Rose-Ann and Whilla had the talk 
that shaped the next stretch of the road on ahead. 

“Whilla, you had a letter to-day?” 

“Yes, Rose-Ann; two. One was from that lawyer in 
Boston in reply to the letter you asked me to write. 

“The Compton place will be kept—as its late owner and 
its present owner—desire.” 

“Thanks, Whilla, dear.” Rose-Ann looked down upon 
the face of her sleeping baby. The child was stretched across 
her knees, relaxed and lovely. 

“And the other letter, Whilla?” 

“It was from Manville. He may be back in August.” 

Neither woman flinched. 

“Whilla, I am going home!” 

Whilla’s eyes showed all that she dared not voice. 

“Oh! I know. I suppose no other woman would do as I 
am about to do, Whilla, but I have decided. I realize that I 
closed all doors behind me. I have no feeling of being 
wronged. They do not know-” 

“And they have never tried to find out!” Whilla broke 
in fiercely. 

“I know—they would be like that, Whilla. I can see 
their point of view—I am of their breed, dear, but with a 
wider vision, thanks to you. You once said, before Baby 
came, that some day I must return. Well, the time has 
come. 

“They do not understand, but / do, Whilla, and I am 
going—not as a penitent. I am going to the house Barry 
gave me; it will be as if he were there to welcome me; advise 
me.” 

Whilla Brookes’s lips twitched. Her sense of humour 
rose. 

“My dear, my dear,” she said laughingly, “it is quite 
monstrous, you know, and one of those impossible New 



282 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


England comic-tragedies that could only flourish on rocks and 
sea weed. They will never condone such a step. Forgive 
me, dear, but just consider. There are very serious things to 
adjust; don't complicate them. You ran away from home— 
to another man. You have stayed in the tents of the out¬ 
laws for nearly a year; you go back with a child and live in 
the town of your father and—of your deserted husband. 

“ Rose-Ann, you cannot do this. It is brutal to them and— 
impossible for you.” 

Rose-Ann raised her fine eyes with the new strength and 
po^ T er in them. 

“I seethe truth of all you say, Whilla, but I am going back 
to Barry’s house! I shall ask nothing and I know that little 
will be given me. 

“There are hard, terrible things in those New England 
towns, Whilla. Families divided and unforgiving; gloomy 
houses—where love and friendliness never come. Oh! I 
know, I know; but I am going back and try-” 

“What, Rose-Ann?” 

“Try and see—what my baby can do.” 

“She will be the cruellest part of it, Rose-Ann; the one 
unforgivable thing!” 

“I do not think so.” 

Whilla made no reply. In the firm face and voice of 
Rose-Ann she saw and felt the iron strain that marked her 
breed. If any woman could carry on the impossible thing, 
Rose-Ann could. 

But Whilla saw more. Like one who had toiled to the 
highest peak of the range she saw far; far. 

When Manville knew the marvellous, the tragically beau¬ 
tiful thing that had happened, there would be but one thing 
for him to do. Go, and do his part! 

And when he saw Rose-Ann, in her lonely home with 
her child, when he realized the daring she had displayed, 
the suffering she had endured; then he would rise in wrath 
at the hardness that he could not break for her, but which 
would, in the end, break her, what else could he do—what 
else could any man do? 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


283 

There might still be, for Whilla, the one supreme sacrifice; 
the supreme proving of herself. She must make it possible 
for Manville to follow his will and desire; that must be her 
task, no matter what the outcome might be. Life had borne 
them all far and wide—she must do her part! 

The sunlight lay warm on the two women, but Whilla 
shivered. 

“You are cold, Whilla?” 

And Rose-Ann drew the soft blanket closer about her baby. 

“Yes, thinking of you on your rockbound coast. Rose- 
Ann, it cannot be done. Go where you will, dear, but do not 
attempt slow suicide.” 

But Rose-Ann merely smiled and bent to kiss the little 
awakening child. 

Then after a long, adoring look: 

“Whilla,” she said slowly, “I was not sure before, but it 
has come to me like a revelation to-day. 

“My darling is wonderfully like her father! It is as if 
she came with proof. I am not afraid any more. Oh! 
Baby, Baby-sweet. You are not to be denied—are you? 
You—you chose your father, my baby-dear—and you will 
not let me defraud you.” 

Rose-Ann was crying—the tears fell on the smiling baby 
face; the child crooned and lifted her rose-leaf hands as if to 
catch the drops. 

Whilla came close and gazed upon the two. 

“It’s all too big for me,” she said, as she had the night 
when Aunty Day appeared; then she flung her head back; her 
firm white throat pulsed. 

“Good Lord, Rose-Ann,” she cried out, “this world is a 
comic show when you think about it, but if it gets you, makes 
you feel, then it is high tragedy. 

“My dear, my dear, don’t let it get you!” 


CHAPTER XXI 


A ND Rose-Ann, serious-eyed and frail, decided, late in 
May, to return to Middle Essex. 

She insisted that she must go as she came, alone, 
though Whilla was eager to go with her—“part way, at 
least,” she had pleaded, her heart heavy as she contemplated 
Rose-Ann’s reception and, later, her own sense of loss. 

But no; Rose-Ann once acknowledging that she had, in 
her revolt, sowed the whirlwind, demanded that she reap 
the harvest. 

“Only so,” she whimsically confided to Whilla, the night 
before her departure, “can women really go back! And it is 
the going back from the start, as fully as one can, that counts. 

“The Canyon of Passing Spirits,” she smiled wanly, “has 
life at both ends. I feel as if I were entering mine now.” 

Rose-Ann had not written to announce her arrival to any 
one but her lawyer. She had been in constant touch with 
him all winter while Barry’s bequests were being faithfully 
carried out. Through him she had learned that the English 
maids had returned home, but that Cleaver had been re¬ 
quested to remain in Compton’s house, “subject to her com¬ 
mands.” 

Rose-Ann had been greatly moved by this: had eagerly 
agreed to the request, but had put off writing direct to 
Cleaver for reasons that gradually closed in upon her, mak¬ 
ing it impossible for her to explain herself until such time as 
she was ready to go back to Middle Essex. 

There were hours when Rose-Ann, recalling Whilla 
Brookes’s doubt as to the paternity of her child, grew grave 
and apprehensive. 

Her foolish hour of forgetfulness with Eric Manville had cost 
her much: much. But—and here Rose-Ann took courage— 
that hour had given more than it had taken. It had been the 

284 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


*85 

beginning of her real revealment to herself: had, as such 
hours do, brought weakness and strength to the surface, with 
which to confront life. Rose-Ann had always said that she 
would be willing to pay for her experiences. Well! payday 
had come. 

The triumph lay in the fact that the subtle fear that had 
heretofore stood between Braintree and her was gone. Not 
a vestige of it was left and, moreover, in her clearer vision of 
herself she was gradually able to set herself aside and see 
only the situation from the viewpoint of her people. Her 
people. In that lay the secret of the force that was sustain¬ 
ing her. They were peculiarly her people. That appear¬ 
ances weighed more with them than actual facts—caused her 
to be tolerant. It made her task a bit harder; her people 
would not abandon their position as readily as Whilla Brookes 
had—but she was prepared to pay in the coin of her people. 
There had been no real wrong, but to minds turned to a rigid 
code, her offence must be judged by the spirit, not the letter. 

Where Whilla had doubted, her people had passed judg¬ 
ment! At this conclusion Rose-Ann set her lips grimly, 
even while her eyes grew tender. 

And so it was that she decided to say nothing of her child 
until she had seen Braintree. Baldly she must give him all 
the facts. That was his due. After that a way would be 
opened. Rose-Ann felt very sure about that. 

When the journey East was begun Rose-Ann’s spirits rose. 
She did not hurry. When her baby grew restless or her own 
strength flagged, she waited over for a day or so and then 
went on refreshed. 

The constant care of her child engrossed and fascinated 
her, and presently the likeness to Braintree obsessed her. 

If ever God had placed His mark of vindication on any 
human being, He had put it upon Braintree’s child. The 
resemblance to him was startling; even the little irregularities 
and defects were in evidence. 

“Marks of identification,” Rose-Ann had once called them 
to Braintree while she counted the blemishes as things greatly 
to be admired. 


286 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“It’s like the fairy tale,” she had said: “‘What a funny 
twist to the right ear, my dearl^All the better to know you 
byl* 

“‘What a queer droop to the right eyelid, my dear!* 

“‘All the better to wink with, my dear!’ 

‘“What a comical curve of your little finger, my dear!’ 

“‘All the better to cling to!’” 

How wonderful and happy and foolish it had been! The 
memory brought tears to Rose-Ann’s eyes and blotted out 
the precious baby-thing upon her lap with all the heart¬ 
breaking “defects” that must plead for her now. 

Then, comparing that happy heedless time with the black 
hour when Braintree had tried his strength against hers, the 
tears dried suddenly and a sanctifying sense of justice came 
to her aid. 

With the revulsion of feeling again came the knowledge 
that she had lost all fear of that Something that had stood 
between her and Braintree and which had driven them 
apart. 

She knew that she could tell Braintree anything; every¬ 
thing. If he could not, or would not listen—well—then her 
task would be the harder, longer; but she was not dismayed. 
And as the train rattled merrily over the shining rails her 
thoughts swung into a tune that was like a lullaby. 

From Chicago Rose-Ann wrote to Cleaver. She was to 
remain there a week and rest. She went to a quiet hotel 
and gave herself up to long nights of sleep and days of wan¬ 
dering in parks and by the lake side. 

“I wish I could find you, dear Aunt Theodora,” she often 
thought—harking back to the kindly old woman she had 
met in the train on her way West; “what a comfort you would 
be.” 

Always she scanned the faces of elderly women with a 
hungry, pitiful longing. Often women, age-touched women, 
would smile back into her seeking eyes; occasionally a friendly 
soul would sit with her in the warm spring sunshine and 
make her glad by her sympathy and companionship. 

But Aunt Theodora did not materialize, and at the week- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 287 

end, when the train rolled out of Chicago, Rose-Ann thought, 
and her eyes were grave and deep: 

“Oh! my dear, my dear, you only went half way—I went 
to the jumping-off place. Eve paid your score and mine, 
dear—we can both rest now. Eve seen what lies the other 
side of the top—you did not have that chance. Ell tuck 
you up, safe and quiet, when we get home. God bless you, 
dear! We’re going back; back; back!” 

And if 


“thoughts are things and their gauzy wings, 

Are swifter than carrier doves” 

—somewhere in the Middle West city an old lady stirred in 
her bed; smiled, perhaps, and knew a strange feeling of peace 
and happiness. 

Little Helen was a marvellous traveller. She accepted the 
fortunes of the road with gurgling delight. Strangers, seeing 
that she was not to be a nuisance, greeted her with joy. She 
was passed about during her waking hours, and when she 
slept, which she did often and long, Rose-Ann, watching the 
blessed little face, felt safe. 

As Whilla Brookes wisely had said, such a situation as Rose- 
Ann had evolved could never have flourished anywhere but 
in a New England community where the rockbound con¬ 
ventions and prejudices still held. 

When Rose-Ann fled, certain grim facts had been accepted. 
She had abandoned her husband; her home; her family. She 
had outraged the plain decencies of life. That closed the 
doors and silenced the tongues—as far as those most affected 
were concerned. They never talked of Rose-Ann. 

Of course Essex, more frank and untrammelled, had rev¬ 
elled in the scandal—but Middle Essex simply lifted its chin 
a little higher and ignored Essex. 

If any one sought to find out where Rose-Ann was and with 
whom, he kept his investigation to himself. After all, what 
did it matter? The stern, appalling facts were enough to 
damn her; why add fuel to the blaze she had started? 


288 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


Aunt Theodora had been no more surely consigned to outer 
darkness than was Rose-Ann. 

When Essex showed signs of speaking of the affair, above 
whispers, it was Conklin who stamped the inclination to 
earth. 

“By the Lord above!” he said to his daughters, “if I hear 
of your listening to, or spilling, any of this slime that is oozing 
around I’ll turn you out into it and let yer wade as best as 
yer can.” 

And gradually, even in Essex, the mantle of silence had been 
dropped over Rose-Ann’s name. 

Trevall, sterner, looking older, went regularly to the 
Bank and as regularly returned to his home, gazing from 
afar at its beautiful door and shining knocker. If he ever 
cringed in the emptiness and loneliness of his home, none 
knew. Prudence and Albert shared many of his evenings and 
always his Sundays—but they never mentioned Rose-Ann. 
Little Faith, alone, could bring a smile to the stern old face— 
she was a radiant child. 

“Gramp,” she often said, kneeling on his lap and patting 
his mask-like features, “Baby wants to make-um buful!” 
With this she would turn the corners of his stern mouth up 
and kiss the tip of his thin, aristocratic nose. 

“Now keep dat way!” she commanded. 

On Braintree, the passing of Rose-Ann and the shock of 
Compton’s death had worked a strange change. 

As silent as the others concerning the blow that had been 
dealt him, he expanded toward, rather than shrank from, his 
neighbours. He did several amazing and incomprehensible 
things. 

After Compton’s death he had gone to Conklin and stag¬ 
gered that red-faced gentleman by suggesting that Comp¬ 
ton’s work at the Torch Light should be carried on. 

“I do not know how you feel,” he had said, “but it seems' 
to me that we owe this to him.” 

They did not try to enlighten each other further—perhaps 
they fully understood—but the Torch Light began to flare 
again ruddily. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


289 

Braintree ordered a bas-relief of Compton made, and had it 
placed back of the platform from which Compton had made 
his last appeal. 

The getting-together that Conklin had suggested on that 
last night had brought about remarkable results that had the 
effect of humiliating Conklin. 

“By God!” he often ejaculated, “Compton was nearer 
right than I. They do catch on—to a certain extent.” 
Gradually, he was working out a cooperative plan that the 
younger men eagerly accepted, and after Brady had been 
dismissed, for that was found necessary, the older men agreed 
to. 

And the “principle” set in motion worked—the Conklin 
and Conklin Mills flourished, and while the Mill Tavern had 
its hissers, the Torch Light had its rooters. 

Braintree could not easily adapt himself to personal 
service, nor could he feel a kinship for the youth of Essex 
which Compton had felt, but he was their friend and stood, 
financially, behind them who were gifted with the divine 
understanding which he lacked. 

Then, not being able to endure the awful emptiness of his 
house, night after night, Braintree reached out for some¬ 
thing to still the gnawing pain in his heart. He went often 
to Boston; heard the best music; saw the best plays and, 
when he did spend an evening at home, read books of which 
Trevall gravely disapproved. 

“This is all wrong,” he had once said to Braintree as he 
fingered gingerly a volume of suspiciously new ideas. 

“Oh! I don't know,” Braintree replied; “that's why 
I'm reading it.” 

If life settled back into its groove as far as the Trevalls 
were concerned, it ran in a new groove for Braintree. Maggie, 
gaping a little now, stayed on and asked, about once a month, 
if “Missus was soon coming back.” With marvellous lack 
of tact she ignored the blank silence regarding Rose-Ann. 

Braintree always replied that when Mrs. Braintree had 
finished her visit she would let them know. 

Maggie was of the class that takes answers to her questions 


290 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


as a hungry bird takes worms—unless they were too large 
and tough, she swallowed them. 

Then Braintree began making additions and alterations on 
his house and grounds. He probably did not realize it him¬ 
self, but these activities were largely controlled by the taste of 
Rose-Ann. 

No one but Braintree’s God—and that God was under¬ 
going a change—knew how he suffered. Rose-Ann had been 
the one bright and shining thing in Braintree’s austere life. 
Her song and laughter had warmed the silent places of his 
soul, and though he would have died rather than confess 
such weakness, he mourned, as few men ever mourn, her 
absence. 

He worked harder at the Bank, too. Where ambition 
had never stirred before, it reared now. No one must think 
him beaten. 

And so he moved among his fellow-men, and because he 
could not express his suffering, he suffered the more. 

And then, like a stunning blow came the news that Rose- 
Ann was returning! Just that simple statement. Cleaver 
had announced it, via the servants, and the rumour spread 
like fire under the dry leaves of the forest. 

“Returning—where?” Trevall looked at Prudence, who 
had brought the word to him fresh from the tongue of Patsy 
O’Brien, who had got it from the Compton house. 

“Why, to the place Mr. Compton left, Father. I never 
heard of anything so shameless.” 

Trevall’s face looked gray. 

“What are you going to do, Father? What line of action 
will you take?” 

“I shall not deviate from my course. Why should I?” 

“But will you speak to her, Father?” 

“Certainly. As I would to a stranger who had come 
among us.” 

This relieved Prudence. Of course she must do as her 
father did, but she could not hope to carry it on with his 
awful calm. Prudence could not forget, at times, the vision 
of Rose-Ann with little Faith on her breast. Rose-Ann had 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


291 


that fatal appeal to the weakness in one, and during her 
absence the sweetness of her had lived on. 

“What do you think William will do, Father?” 

Trevall gazed surprisedly at his elder daughter. 

“My dear, you amaze me. What should he do? He is a 
gentleman; he has lived uprightly and as a Christian should. 
If his wife has so little sense of decency as to put him to this 
test, he must meet it, as he has met all else, unflinchingly. 
Right cannot be conquered by evil, Prudence. Just reflect 
upon that.” 

When Maggie heard the news from the Compton place 
she had a bad day. 

Braintree came home tired from Boston. He had been 
away three days. He had telephoned to Maggie, earlier, 
and ordered his evening meal. 

Maggie served the fragrant meal much as a sleepwalker 
might. She had managed to assemble the food and prepare 
it—but when it came to placing it before her master, she 
became fuddled. 

The soup course passed triumphantly; then, instead of the 
steak, Maggie placed strawberries before him—red, luscious 
fruit from his own beds. 

“What’s this?” Braintree asked, regarding the dish of 
berries as if they were poison. 

“Them’s strawberries, sir.” 

“Where’s the steak, Maggie, and vegetables?” 

“My God!” muttered the girl, and withdrew the dessert 
and fled to the kitchen. 

When she returned with the meat course on her tray, she 
was shedding tears. Braintree looked at her in real alarm. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. 

“It’s that quare!” blubbered the girl. “I ain’t been 
decently treated like one as has served proper and faithful 
should have been.” 

“What do you mean?” Braintree took up the carver and 
steel, and while he sharpened the knife he held Maggie with 
his stern young eyes. 

“About the missus! She’s coming back!” 


292 THE TENTH WOMAN 

Braintree’s heart gave an uncomfortable leap, but he be¬ 
gan, calmly, cutting the steak. 

“I do not care for gossip,” he said coldly. “Pass the peas, 
Maggie.” 

‘‘An’ her living up ter Mr. Compton’s place—all by her¬ 
self”—Maggie was lost to the warnings filling the air. “’Tain’t 
human and decent, that it ain’t! An’ her that was alias so 
comfortable to get on with.” Then Maggie went to des¬ 
perate lengths—she drew her ideals from Middle Essex but 
her tastes were formed at the moving picture theatre. 

“There’s them as do cover up blacker crimes than what the 
likes of her ever dreamed. If all was knowed-” 

But Maggie got no further. Braintree paused with a 
luscious bit of meat half way to his mouth and said with 
terrifying calm: 

“Place the potatoes and salad nearer me, Maggie, then 
leave the room.” 

The tone brought the girl to her senses. 

“Oh! please, sir,” she pleaded, “I’m axin’ yer pardon. 
The heart of me has been aching the day—me tongue is me 
curse.” 

Braintree had never liked the girl so well. 

“I’ll excuse you, Maggie,” he said quietly, “but remember, 
I will not have gossip brought here.” 

Maggie finished her day’s task in silence and then went, 
as was the custom, to Prudence’s for the night. 

When Braintree was alone, he went to the telephone and 
called up Trevall. His face grew white and tense as he 
spoke and listened. 

“Of course there is but one thing to do,” he said at last. 
“Nothing; absolutely nothing. The house is her own, 
Trevall, she has a perfect right to occupy it.” 

Braintree slept little that night—but a cold morning bath 
always removed any marks of strain from his face. He 
whistled desperately, dramatically, as he performed his 
toilet and Maggie, below, reenforced by confidences she had 
shared with Patsy O’Brien, hissed between her teeth: 

“The hard-heartedness of him! It’s a crime, that it is. 



THE TENTH WOMAN 


293 


Him an icicle—and her that sunny and free-like. I hope— 
God hearing me—I hope she brings him with her ter fling in 
their faces !” Maggie was referring to Manville. 

Rose-Ann came into Middle Essex from Boston by auto¬ 
mobile and she came by night. 

Cleaver alone knew of her coming and he had tremblingly 
made ready for her. The old house was beautiful and 
flowers were in every vase; the windows opened to the sweet 
June air, while a welcoming fire glowed on the hearth of 
the library. 

Cleaver had engaged a couple of maids from Boston a 
week earlier, and by the subtle magic that works such 
miracles, already these girls were agog with excitement and 
bent upon devoted loyalty to the coming mistress. 

Cleaver was bending over the library table, as, unknown 
to him, Rose-Ann was rolling toward the house. He was 
polishing the rosewood table upon which Compton’s de¬ 
feated head had fallen. The mere doing of homely tasks 
gave Cleaver comfort—he seemed, now, to be smoothing the 
bowed head. And then—there came a tap on the window 
opening on the porch. 

The old man started back—his face white and haggard. 
He knew not what to expect; anything; everything! 

“Fve come back, Cleaver!” 

There stood Rose-Ann with that lovely light upon her pale 
face that Cleaver knew so well. 

He went eagerly forward; he stretched out his arms and 
cried: 

“My lady, my lady-” Then he paused, seeing what 

Rose-Ann carried. 

“Fm very tired, Cleaver, and this—is my baby.” 

“Yes, my lady.” Cleaver had accepted the staggering 
fact. 

“And, Cleaver, I do not wish anything said about my baby 
until I have seen its father, to-morrow—or soon.” 

“Yes, my lady.” And just how it happened neither of 
them ever knew, but Rose-Ann was seated by the fire; a tray 
of food was beside her and Cleaver was tiptoeing near the 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


294 

door with every suggestion of shielding, with his life, the 
secret that the old library held. 

The second evening of her homecoming Rose-Ann went to 
see Braintree but before that she had had a strangely beau¬ 
tiful night’s rest and a day of calm. The baby’s gentle gur¬ 
gles and complaints had not reached beyond the discreetly 
closed doors of the rooms Cleaver had prepared against Rose- 
Ann’s coming. 

The maids had met their new mistress and had instantly 
become her champions. She represented a living example 
to them of suffering innocence triumphing over cruelty. 

Facts, with them, did not count against the dramatic 
aspect of the case as they knew it. 

Rose-Ann was Romance to them. 

And Cleaver had told Rose-Ann of that last night when 
Compton had bidden him farewell. She had wept away all 
the bitterness; had come at the day’s end to feel, as if more 
than ever before, that Barry was near her. 

At two o’clock that wonderful day Andrew Conklin had 
called. Very simply Rose-Ann greeted him. Conklin 
looked red and uncomfortable, but Rose-Ann took his big 
hands in hers and said: 

“You were Barry Compton’s friend, I hope you can be 
mine.” 

“That’s what I’m here to tell you, Mrs. Braintree.” 
Conklin sat down heavily. They were in the library; he 
looked about the room with saddened eyes. 

“I’m thinking you’re going to be up against it,” he said 
gravely; “but you can count on two or three things. I’m 
standing for you, down to Essex, and by God! I’m going to see 
fair play.” 

Rose-Ann smiled wanly. 

“It goes against the grain of me,” Conklin swept along— 
“all this starched stiff, God-to-goodness make-up that 
can’t bend. It’ll get smashed some day, that’s what’ll 
happen. 

“Now, Mrs. Braintree, you’re a rich woman and money can 
carry you some length on the road, believe me! Keep a 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


295 

stiff lip—that’s what I’m advising. Money and a stiff lip 
will pull you out. 

“And the Torch Light, Mrs. Braintree, just you get your 
oar in there. They think of Compton—well, I guess they 
think of him as if they’d struck him down.” 

Rose-Ann’s “stiff lip” was trembling, her eyes were full of 
tears. 

“I am going to do my best,” she faltered. “And I thank 
you, Mr. Conklin.” 

It was a fragrant starry night when Rose-Ann went to 
her old home. Maggie had departed. Braintree sat in the 
library under the electric light. The windows were open to 
sweet, warm darkness. Rose-Ann stood like a little ghost, 
and took in every detail. Like a spirit, too, she saw what 
many earth-held eyes might not have seen: the marks of 
care, everywhere, including Braintree himself. By a God- 
given sense, Rose-Ann understood! 

She hardly knew how to make her presence known. She 
did not want to shock Braintree or take an undue advantage. 
She moved a bit closer to the French window and Braintree 
raised his head. 

“Who is there?” he asked. 

“It is I”— Rose-Ann almost added, “Billy”; the old 
familiar things had all but caught her, blotting out the 
present. 

“Rose-Ann! You have come—here—to me?” 

“Yes.” 

“I had anticipated an interview,” Braintree rose and 
pointed to a chair—it happened to be Faith Trevall’s little 
rocker. “I thought you might, in time, send for me.” 

Rose-Ann sat down, and the memory of her mother com¬ 
forted her like clinging arms. She looked at Braintree and 
saw the struggle that he vainly sought to hide. 

“I thought it best to come to you,” she said. 

Braintree was watching her. This was no penitent about 
to grovel at his feet. 

“Why have you come?” he said coldly. “Surely, there 
must be some explanation.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


296 

“There is—but it isn’t easy to explain,” whispered Rose- 
Ann. “It all sounds so—so—unbelievable!” And then 
to her own undoing Rose-Ann smiled. 

Had she not smiled, she would have wept aloud. 

Braintree’s face grew crimson and every line of his body 
stiffened. 

“Oh! forgive me,” R.ose-Ann pleaded. “You see, it is 
like having lived through a fearful dream; seeing everything 
as if it were so; suffering—then waking and finding that it 
isrCt true” 

This was almost more than Braintree could stand. Every 
nerve tingled—his whole being was in revolt; but in the revolt 
was a flooding sense of joy that almost overpowered him. 

“You have taken me by surprise; you have shocked me 
beyond expression,” he began slowly, coldly. “Your coming 
here to Middle Essex at all is appalling. Your presence here, 
at this time of night, unannounced”—Braintree was gaining 
control of himself— “is, to put it plainly, outrageous, Rose- 
Ann. I must ask you to bring the interview to an end. If 
you desire it, I will call at—at your home in the presence of 
your father and your lawyer. What remains to be said—can 
be said then.” 

The smile was gone from Rose-Ann’s face now—she was 
pale as if death touched her. She looked up at Braintree with 
pity and yearning in her lovely eyes. The hardness and 
cruelty of his voice did not reach her—she was looking at him, 
seeing the suffering he was enduring in that grim prison of 
his that his forbears had built around him. In every tone 
that repudiated her she heard the appeal that could not be 
killed. He wanted her—while he drove her from him! If 
she could crawl to his feet, sob out her contrition, he might 
raise her up—he might deal in that way with his conscience. 
But Rose-Ann made no move toward him—she was herself 
at last and as such he must recognize her. 

“Billy,” she whispered, and her eyes were full of tears that 
did not fall, “I wonder, if you found out that you had 
wronged someone—wronged her terribly—how would you 
feel?” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


297 


This was the most unfortunate thing Rose-Ann could have 
said at that strained moment. 

It put Braintree on the defensive; it was an insult to his 
intelligence and honour. 

“I cannot possibly comprehend you or your actions,” he 
began deliberately, “and I do not intend to carry this absurd 
situation any further. 

“I do not form groundless opinions, Rose-Ann, you must do 
me that credit. When a woman leaves her home and hus¬ 
band for—for another man, certainly the husband has 
sufficient ground for forming rather a definite opinion. That 
you now care to return and are financially able to choose your 
course; that you care to defy public opinion and cause in¬ 
tense suffering to those whom you have wronged, is beyond 
reason—belief. Do you wish a divorce? If so, I will tell 
you decidedly, I will not give it. I do not believe in divorce. 
As you have made your bed, so lie upon it.” 

Braintree rose. He was white and haggard. 

“Through this all, Rose-Ann,” he said, as if pushing her 
finally out of his life, “I have thanked God there was no 
child. I can bear my part—but that would have been, I 
fear, beyond my endurance.” 

Rose-Ann got upon her feet and stepped back toward the 
window through which she had entered; at the casement she 
stopped, held the drapery as if to steady her frail body and 
said gently: 

“Billy, there is—a child. Yours! I came to tell you 
that!” 

Braintree staggered under the blow. 

“My God!” he breathed. “And you expect me to—to 
believe this? Rose-Ann, are you mad? What is it that you 
are trying to do ?” 

“No, I am not mad, now. I was when I went away. I 
have been—oh! I have been through hell, Billy—but IVe 
seen heaven, too. I ran from a fear that was born in me— 
you did not understand, nor did I. I went to—to Eric Man- 
ville’s home, because in all the world he seemed the only one 
I could go to. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


298 

“I—I wanted to—to hurt you, Billy, because I was so 
terribly hurt—and I took the way that could hurt you most. 
I was mad; mad! But Manville was not there; he was, he 
still is, in South Africa.” The dull details fell from Rose- 
Ann’s lips as though she were defending herself upon a 
witness stand. 

She saw, with a kind of desperation, that Braintree was 
disbelieving her; she was losing ground. What she had ex¬ 
pected she hardly knew, but she realized that she was facing 
defeat. Still she must go on to the end; Braintree must have 
the bald facts. 

She had come back in order to give them to him—she was 
not afraid, but she was hopeless. 

“Whilla Brookes ,, —she hesitated and then went stead¬ 
ily on, covering a point that she knew would be vital to 
Braintree—“Whilla is—is Manville’s housekeeper. They 
are not—married, but she is the most wonderful woman—so 
good. She made me stay; she was heavenly to me. Your 
child and mine was born there and now I have come back! 

“You—you do not believe this?” Rose-Ann stretched out 
her hands. Her confused words sounded piteous. 

“Certainly not.” Braintree’s eyes blazed. “Rose-Ann, 
I gave you credit for more common sense.” 

The situation was at last reduced to normal. The ugliness 
of it made Rose-Ann wince. 

“Good-night,” she said drearily. 

“Good-night.” 

“Do you”— what was it that compelled Braintree to ask 
it?—“do you wish me to see you safely to your home?” 

“No. I am quite, quite safe. I had to tell you the truth. 
Good-night.” 

And she was gone. For a moment Braintree stood rigidly 
looking at the window through which she had passed. The 
fragrance of the night came into the room; the curtains 
swayed. 

Braintree was visualizing the future in the light of the 
amazing thing he had heard. Never had so brazen and 
monstrous a position been forced upon innocent people. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


299 

There was no pity or mercy, for the moment, in Braintree’s 
mind. He was horrified beyond endurance. He saw only 
the desperate attempt of a defiant woman to reinstate her¬ 
self in a community where she had no right to be. 

“And Compton had made this possible!” 

All this Braintree was conscious of, but a greater thing, for 
the moment, eluded him. Somewhere in the soul of him 
that had been bome through suffering, a voice pleaded for 
Rose-Ann. It declared that the amazing thing she had told 
was truth! It bade Braintree, with a note of warning, to 
withhold judgment as he valued the peace of his soul. 

Warring against the inheritance of ages this newer ele¬ 
ment in Braintree tore and shook him. But he stood still in 
his quiet room, looking at the window through which the 
woman had passed with her mighty Truth or Falsehood. 

“Which? Which?” At last Braintree sank in his chair 
and covered his eyes. He recovered slowly from the double 
shock he had endured—the physical presence of Rose-Ann 
and the knowledge of the child. 

And from that night there was established in Middle 
Essex another New England tragedy that took on, at times, 
a guise of comedy. 

Rose-Ann quite simply accepted her life conditions. She 
neither hid nor paraded her activities. She passed most of 
her time in Barry’s home or his garden; but if on the street 
she met her father, Prudence, or a neighbour, she smiled her 
old bright smile and went her way. 

“Good day, Father!” 

“Good day, Rose-Ann!” (A stiff inclination of the head.) 

“How do you do, Prue?” 

“Rose-Ann!” (Gaspingly, and with a change of colour on 
Prudence’s face.) 

Occasionally Rose-Ann met Patsy O’Brien with little Faith. 
That was harder, but Patsy, as time went on, took a stand. 

Conklin called and brought his daughters and, to his 
everlasting credit be it said, he had no personal feeling in the 
matter, he was seeing fair play according to his lights and 
his daughters were genuinely fond of Rose-Ann. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


300 

Of course the community was divided. Some thought in 
terms of tar and feathers, whipping post, and ducking stool; 
others, more modern, but none the less rigid, held Braintree 
in contempt for not freeing himself, and all others, from so 
trying a situation. 

'‘There’s the law!” these said. But it was left to poor 
little Patsy O’Brien to show the compassion that drove her 
onto the rocks. 

It was two weeks after Rose-Ann’s dramatic return that 
she bearded Prudence and Albert in their lair—the living 
room of their home. She had put little Faith to bed; wept 
copiously over her; packed her bag—it was standing on the 
back porch, and arrayed herself in her outdoor trappings, 
then took her stand. 

“Where are you going, Patsy?” Prudence looked up from 
her book and Albert, who was dozing, opened his eyes; “this 
is not your night out.” 

“Yes’m, it is that!” Patsy said grimly. 

“What do you mean?” It was Albert who spoke. As 
master of his house, he was alert at once. 

Patsy began to sob. 

“If it wasn’t for the baby,” she said, “I might stick it out 
and hurl rocks like the rest of yer—only I wouldn’t, remem¬ 
bering as how she stood by me!” The girl’s eyes flashed 
through her tears. “I mean,” she qualified, “that I mightn’t 
leave yer—but I’ve seen the baby of—of her yer all trying 
to kill—but you won’t! TTis the lie that baby is giving 
yer all. ’Tis the spinking, spanking image of himself—Mr. 
Braintree.” 

“Girl!” Albert’s voice shook with anger. “How dare 
you!” 

Patsy, at bay, was equal to any emergency. 

“I dare tell the truth, God hearing me!” she flung back, 
sniffing miserably. “God’s writ clear and plain on that 
blessed’s face. He’ll down yer all with it some day. I can’t 
see the loikes of that lamb left to the mercy of a stiff-starched 
maid as has never had a child of her own—and couldn’t, 
heaven help her! I’m going to see that the child has a good 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


301 

chance to—to—” Patsy faltered—“to get the best of ye 
all,” she ended weakly. 

“ Patsy, go pack your clothes.” Prudence was white and 
trembling, the end of her nose was red. 

“They’re packed, ma’am, and on the back porch.” 

“If you go to Mr. Compton’s house,” Albert broke in, 
“you will never return here.” 

“I’ve counted on that, sir.” 

“And”— this with a severity that surprised even Prudence 
Townsend flung out—“never, under any circumstances, 
permit that child to come in contact with Faith.” 

There was a silence, then Patsy struck a telling blow. 

“I’ll not put myself out, sir, to force one lamb on the other. 
But far be it from me, sir, to fly in the face of Providence, if 
He takes things in His own hands on the public highway.” 

With that Patsy, shaking with emotion, strode out into 
the night and made her way to Rose-Ann. 


CHAPTER XXII 


HE autumn came early to Lone Two Ranch that 



year. 


Whilla Brookes, living in a state of strange emotions, 
was alone with the men. After Rose-Ann’s departure she 
experienced such a sense of detachment as she had never 
known. She was, essentially, a woman’s woman; a mother 
of the world. Her natural bent had been distorted, but deep 
in her heart she had not changed. She had strayed into the 
camp of men; had shared with them danger and hardship; 
primitive passion and—yes, loyal affection. She, who might 
have brooded dreamily over many children, had learned to 
protect her shreds of honour at the pistol’s point in a wilder¬ 
ness where the codes were simple and crude and the morals 
matched them. 

The last beautiful and tender thing in Whilla’s life seemed 
to fade with the going of Rose-Ann and her baby. In the 
night she would often rouse suddenly, sit up breathing hard, 
and think she heard the child’s soft call. 

Often, bending over her lonely fire, her grave, fine face 
resting in her hands, she would listen to the rain or hail 
outside and fancy that she heard Rose-Ann, again, tapping 
on the door. 

That she had done a big and noble thing herself did not 
occur to Whilla—she had but followed the code of the ranges 
and the dictates of her own true soul, that had not been 
scorched or burnt, as she had passed through the trials that 
had battered her lesser self. 

She had kept busy, exhaustingly busy, through July and 
early August. Desperately, with the only hope that was 
left her, she looked to Manville’s interests; she ate care¬ 
fully; regularly. She took keen interest in her appearance. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


303 


She meant, while giving Rose-Ann every chance and Manville 
all the freedom she believed he deserved in spite of his re¬ 
lations with her, to be just to herself. She meant to stand 
before the final bar of judgment at her best. He should not 
pity her. 

There was no one to tell Whilla Brookes how her beauty 
was gaining with the days. The physical care she gave to 
herself counted, but her beauty was growing from within. 
Wonderful thoughts came to her that had lain dormant for 
long years; her vision seemed to be quickened. As one with 
restored sight beholds the shades and tints that the more 
casual eye overlooks, so now she saw the trees, the tall pines 
with strong, broad, outstretched arms. They seemed gener¬ 
ously blessing the world; they cast wide shadows that were 
like benedictions. Never had the skies been more blue to 
Whilla Brookes, nor the stars nearer, more friendly, than they 
were that summer. The little streams sang, where once they 
had gurgled along. The woman was living intimately with 
Nature and Nature was taking her into its safe and enduring 
care. 

It was on the twenty-fifth of August that Whilla, coming 
down from the burnt timber, struck into the tail-pine trail, 
wearily. She had gone on foot—silently, cautiously, to 
discover what a curl of smoke, near one of Manville’s waiting 
mines, might mean. She had come suddenly upon the group 
of men and caused them much trepidation. She stood tall 
and commanding and regarded them individually. Then she 
said quietly: 

“You’re to clear off by ten to-morrow morning. This is 
no place for honest men, so late in the season, and a danger¬ 
ous place for any of the other kind.” 

The leader of the group returned Whilla’s glance uneasily 
and insolently. 

“I suppose you’re Manville’s woman?” he said. “But 
suppose I refuse to move on until I get orders from head¬ 
quarters ?” 

“You’ll get your orders from Manville’s men to-morrow 
at ten,” Whilla replied quietly, and her eyes did not flinch 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


3 ° 4 

nor her colour change. “Manville’s people,” she added, 
“have their orders.” 

Then she turned and went majestically down the trail. 
She was confident that the camp would be broken before 
morning. 

As she came out of the forest upon the home trail she stood 
still. The day was going fast; and it was not yet five. 

“And that means,” the woman on the lonely trail said, 
“that summer is gone.” 

The chill was intense as darkness fell, and Whilla hurried in. 
Supper and a blazing fire awaited her, but she went to her 
room and changed her rough clothing for the blue gown in 
which Rose-Ann had first seen her. 

Almost religiously she arranged her hair so that it fell in 
softened folds about her face which glowed from the excite¬ 
ment of the day and the damp coldness of the fog. 

“His woman!” she suddenly murmured, regarding her¬ 
self in the glass. “My God! if I only were!” she added, and 
her eyes shone. 

“There should be mail to-night,” she said to the boy who 
brought her food to her. 

“There’s been a washout down by Lazy Four Ranch,” 
the boy informed her; “mighty bad, too. The stage may 
have to take a big detour.” 

“Where did you hear that?” Whilla asked. 

“Lambert. He’s back. Had to hoof it ten miles.” 

“Where is Lambert?” Whilla was alert. 

“Said he was going on to Dexter.” 

“Did he go?” 

“He was headed that way.” 

When the room was cleared of the meal and the fire re¬ 
plenished, Whilla went to a cupboard in the corner and took 
out her pistol, made sure it was in good working order, then 
laid it on the table by her side and began reading a magazine 
—one of many Rose-Ann had recently sent her. 

The evening wore on. Somewhere in the distance a banjo 
tinkled and a man’s roaring voice sang a rollicking song. 

At ten she walked over to the fire and piled on the logs. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


30S 

She stretched her long arms over her head—she was weary; 
a sense of the uselessness of everything overcame her. 

Then, suddenly, her eyes widened; her arms fell at her 
sides—she turned toward the table—there were steps outside! 

The steps did not pause; they came hurrying on; the door 
was pushed open—Manville stood before her with the night 
behind him; the glow of his home-fire on his face! 

He came in, flung his pack on the floor, and stretched out 
his arms. 

“My girl!” he said, “Fve hurried across the world—for 
this.” 

There was a queer, broken sound in the room, a sob, and 
then Whilla ran into Manville’s embrace! 

“Lord!” he whispered, bending his face to her bowed head, 
“this is home.” 

The moment of ecstasy passed; presently they looked 
into each other's eyes. Whilla’s were dim like stars shining 
through a mist. Manville’s were clear and full of laughter. 

Presently Whilla brought food and made hot coffee, for 
Manville told her that he not waited for food when he 
reached the washout. 

“My horse was used up,” he explained. “I left it with 
the ranger and came on.” 

“That was like you.” Whilla, moving about the room, 
looked at the man near the fire as one does who estimates the 
years on ahead when she might see him no more. 

After the meal, they sat by the fire; Manville in his own 
deep chair; Whilla near him. 

“What have you been doing to yourself, girl?” Manville 
was struck with a change in the familiar face. He had not 
considered it before. 

“Looking out for your interests, Eric. That means more 
than it used to. Lone Two mines are being remembered.” 

“Any ugly work?” Manville was alert at once. 

“Nothing that the men and I couldn’t manage. A scamp 
from Denver was caught with a bit of ore that he had no 
right to. The fellow disappeared after one encounter with 
the boys.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


306 

Manville laughed. “Is that all?” he asked. 

“All but a skirmish or two—and to-day I went up to burnt 
timber and gave the order for breaking camp to some rustlers. 
It rather surprised me to find any one nosing about the 
Sleeping Giant. Oh! we’ve kept busy and—missed you. 
I’m glad you are back, Eric.” 

Manville reached out a broad, strong hand and found hers. 

“I’m glad, too,” he said, watching that new, strange ex¬ 
pression on her face; “and I have my African man, too, old 
girl! A wizard with the ore. Scents it like a ferret and 
never lets up on it. He’s got a system that will teach these 
hills a lesson. No holding back when he says the word. 
But best of all”—and here Manville glowed— “I found con¬ 
fidence and trust in the men in England. I got all the money 
I wanted. They’re coming over a year or two from now, and 
by the Lord Harry! they’re going to see all they’re hoping to 
see!” 

“Of course,” Whilla breathed softly, “they will come 
—here?” 

The question stirred Manville strangely. He withdrew 
his hand and looked into the heart of the coals. He forgot to 
answer. 

“It’s very late, Eric!” Whilla stood up, and there was a 
piteous, frightened look in her eyes. 

“Whilla, there is something I’ve got to say to you. Sit 
down. What’s a night to us—after all that has passed—and 
all that is to come? Sit down.” 

Whilla sat down wearily. Her face was white and still. 

“I’m going once again, my girl, to ask you to marry me. 
I think you will do it this time.” Manville’s voice shook. 
“I’ve given myself all the opportunity that was needed to 
make me sure of myself for your sake and mine. You know 
that, don’t you, girl? For yours, as well as mine?” 

“Yes, I am sure of that, Eric.” 

“I know why you’ve held to your line, Whilla, after your 
husband’s death. I’ve always thought it about the biggest 
thing in our—experience, as you call it. When you and I 
drifted together, the life back there had battered us both; 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


307 

made us suspicious—I own to that. We didn’t mean to get 
caught again—well! that was well enough, only we didn’t 
count upon two things. You either get caught, or you shy 
off in time. 

“I made good here—and so did you, Whilla. Then I 
had to go overseas, and then the very devil tempted me to 
stop off and get a breath of the old life and see the effect of it 
on a fellow who had got used to the heights. I put myself 
to the final test. That was the real reason I stayed in the 
East. 

“It certainly was a queer experience. At first I couldn’t 
get air enough. The folks were like petrified creatures to me 
with some kind of inside machinery that made them move 
about like real folks. They were funny; nightmarish— 
all but good old Compton. Compton—I wrote about 
him?” 

“Yes,” Whilla whispered. “He wasn’t petrified, was 
he?” 

“No, poor devil, he was running to seed in used-up soil. 
Trying to help others! Gee, Whilla, there were times when 
I looked at Compton and didn’t know whether to laugh or 
cry—he was so in damned earnest to get the under-dog from 
the clutches of the pile drivers, and the pile drivers were just 
naturally sucking him in!” 

“Yes—naturally”; the words caught in Whilla’s throat. 
Manville did not notice—he was coming to the crux of his 
story. 

“Some women couldn’t understand what I’m going to tell 
you now, girl.” Eric lifted his eyes to the downcast face 
beside him. “ But you will understand. That’s the big thing 
about you—your understanding. 

“Once in Africa, when I got to wanting something—like 
hell, my dear—I had my vision—it was you I wanted, you! 
Just hold to that for the next half hour. I’m speaking God’s 
truth to you. When you face death—or a kind of new life— 
it’s the big thing in your soul that clutches you—you 
clutched me out there! Just you! All the mixed-up deals 
of my life got spread out—and you were on top! 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


308 

“Now listen. There are some men, I reckon they flourish 
best where Compton lives, who cannot imagine equality 
between men and women—they want to pull the strings, 
would punish, or scare their women into their ideas of what’s 
what. It’s ugly business, Whilla, damned ugly business no 
matter how it’s done, and it always gets me! 

“While I was with Compton there was a little woman— 
I wrote about her, too, her name is Braintree.” 

“Yes, I remember.” Whilla felt cold and stiff, though the 
glow of the fire fell full upon her. 

“At first my fighting blood was up. She was being 
twisted out of shape under cover of what was called love. 
Oh! such men as hers have all sorts of devices—now that 
thumbscrews are out of style. 

“The very devil tempted me, Whilla. At first I went in 
for the fun of the thing. It passed the time while I played 
about like a chained bull in their nice pleasant pastures. I 
saw the chance of opening that little woman’s eyes to what 
was actually being done to her—and what she sensed, too, 
poor girl, even while she was muzzled and held on a leash by 
what they know as love. Love! Good Lord, Whilla. Well 
—of course I was a damned, muddling fool—and I got all 
that was coming to me. 

“She saw all right; it won’t hurt her, either—after she gets 
her bearings. She will be splendid when she is herself—and 
she will be some day. I got to knowing that. Why, there 
are possibilities in her”—here Manville indulged in a chuckle 
—“that would blow their constitutional rights to kingdom 
come—if her fuse was touched. 

“But”—and Manville became grave—“I lost hold of my¬ 
self one day, Whilla—just one day! I fled like a whipped 
cur after that one breakdown. There was nothing to do but 
run. I wonder if even you can understand that damned 
streak in men ? 

“Something got me—the day; the place. It was the 
woods—they were like our pines, but I did not think of that 
then. The little Braintree woman was with me—she has a 
something about her that knocks the common sense out of 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


309 


you unless you watch out. It’s the surprises she gives you— 
they bewilder you. You look for one thing and she flares 
forth in quite a different way. I suddenly saw her back in 
the time when I belonged to her breed—and Whilla, God 
hearing me, it was as if I was back there with her. I’m 
giving the whole thing to you square—if I had met her, be¬ 
fore I cut loose, the Lord knows what might have happened, 
and at that mad moment I didn’t remember anything but the 
past. The present came later. 

“That’s about all. You can imagine the rest—she was in 
my arms—I kissed her—and then we both woke up—we’d 
been dreaming. I guess we both felt like the wretched fools 
we were—she got her bearings first. 

“We were staring suddenly at each other in the Present , 
the present. She recovered herself, as the real sort does— 
but she left me feeling like the cur a man is when he betrays 
the trust of his friends, his own self-respect, and mistakes a 
blaze of passion for a real sentiment. 

“I got away without saying any good-byes, Whilla, but 
I’ve had my hours when I realized that a let-go like that 
might mean going the whole down grade. And then it was as 
if you came to pull me together. You and I—out here in 
the place we’ve made; you and I who have no need of dress¬ 
ing up our ideals; they’re plain, but can stand the wear and 
tear of living. 

“This is my life; cities would stifle me, and I’ve got to 
have a woman that is part of this life. Whilla, you are my 
woman! There was a time, when I offered you marriage as a 
kind of sop to my conscience; a—sort of Christmas gift to 
you, when your husband died. 

“Whilla, as God hears me, I ask you to marry me now— 
because I want you for my wife; I need you.” 

The stillness of the room was oppressive. The great logs 
had settled to steady duty, and outside, Whilla almost felt 
the damp chill—the fog was closing in on the log house as if 
it were bent upon absorbing it—there was a drip , drip from 
the eaves. 

“Whilla, will you be my wife—after all these years?” 


3 io THE TENTH WOMAN 

And then Whilla Brookes turned her clear, demanding 
eyes upon him. 

“I believe all you say, Eric, and I understand. A man’s 
a man, we women must reckon with that—and you are a 
good man. You’ve struggled out of many a bad hole. I’m 
not thinking of you—but of that girl. There’s never a man 
been born yet who can understand a woman when she’s 
swept from her bearings. He has his code and another for 
her—but before God there is only one for them both when it 
comes to passion.” 

“You’re wrong there, Whilla, dead wrong.” Manville 
spoke sternly. 

“Oh! Eric, you think that: you try to make yourself 
believe it, but women know.” 

“All right—but that girl, Whilla, after her one flash of 
passion, was as cold and calm as before. She flared and 
faded. When she is lighted again, it will be a slow, steady 
glow—lighting up the corners where she is fixed.” 

“You are sure of that, Eric?” 

“As sure as I am of anything in God’s world.” 

Then Whilla stood up. She went near Manville but did 
not touch him. She wanted to watch his face; her reading 
of it would determine the long—or short—stretch on ahead. 

“You are both right and wrong, Eric,” she said; “you’ve 
done the big thing in telling me all that you have told me— 
but there is a bit more for you to know—before we can 
think of ourselves. 

“After you left Middle Essex something happened to that 
girl and her husband. The fuse, as you call it, was touched. 
She came here!” 

“Here!” Manville put his hands on his knees to steady 
himself, but he could not rise. 

“Here?” He repeated. “Good God!” Then: 

“What, in heaven’s name, did you do with her?” 

“Kept her, Eric. What else was there to do? I had to 
think of you. At first it was like going in the dark—I knew 
so little, and she was terribly frightened. She had spent 
nearly all her money. While she waited for more and—to— 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


3ii 

to gain her strength, she got to trusting me. She was wonder¬ 
ful. I think she sensed your relation to me—but she did not 
flinch.” 

Whilla paused; her throat ached. 

“Go on; go on!” The words as Manville breathed them 
were a mere groan. 

“Her baby was born here. She named it—for—my dead 
—Helen!” 

In all the bewildering sense of being carried away on a mad 
flood, Eric Manville gripped two or three big things that 
stopped him on his rushing course. They did not seem 
strange, even, they were something to which he must cling if 
he were to reach safety. He got upon his feet—he held 
Whilla firmly by the shoulders. 

“Answer me, speak the truth as God hears you, do you 
think her child is mine?” 

A radiant glow lit Whilla’s face, her eyes were full of tears. 
Raising her arms, she clung to Eric’s extended ones. 

“No; no, dear man. At first I did—and I hated you—not 
for the wrong you did me, but the evil you did her—and then 
she made me believe the truth. I had you back again!” 

Manville, the perspiration standing in beads on his fore¬ 
head, sat down heavily in his chair. It was a moment when 
he and Whilla were least able to estimate the next move. 

“And she did that! She, that pale, little”—a smile 
twisted the relaxed lips of the man—“April fire.” He was 
thinking back; back. 

The simple words, the smile, the relief, were maddeningly 
misunderstood by the woman searching every look and tone 
with senses worn to the breaking point. She believed that 
the woman she had shown to Manville made an appeal that 
his former understanding of her could never have made. 

“Where is she now?” Manville asked—“she and her 
child?” 

“She has gone back.” 

“To her husband? Would he take her?” Amaze held 
Eric. “Have you heard?” 

“He has not taken her.” 


312 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


“Where then? Whilla, don’t torture me—where then is 
she? Did she go to Compton?” 

“She went—to Barry Compton’s house—he left every¬ 
thing to her!” In the closer danger Whilla had overlooked 
poor Barry. 

“Left—is he dead?” 

“Yes, he died a few days after Rose-Ann fled from her 
home.” 

Once, Eric Manville had seen a forest fire spread around 
his lonely camp on the ranges. He had seen it eat its crim¬ 
son way into the deep woods, leaving them black and scarred. 
The sight had so paralyzed him that when it was almost too 
late he had recognized his own danger. 

So he felt now. A blackened expanse spread about him; he 
looked at Whilla in bewilderment. 

“I’m about all in!” he said, and closed his eyes. 

Whilla still stood watching him. 

“I’m going to bed,” she presently said, and then, more 
quietly: “Eric, there’s a little of the night left. Try to rest, 
my dear—and there’s to-morrow, you know. Remember 
what old Aunty Day says—burdens, shoulders, and God!” 

She smiled wanly, went across the room, and passed 
through the door to the chamber where Rose-Ann had slept! 

Lying, wide-eyed upon her bed, she saw the red dawn 
creep up over the top of the black pines. She heard Man¬ 
ville moving about in the next room—and then because she 
was desperate and at the end of her endurance, she fell a prey 
to the black evil that stalks after the fallen. 

“If he goes to her I shall understand. And if he goes, he 
shall go free of me. I’ll hold no man against his will—I have 
that much left to me. 

“If he goes, he goes free; and must decide for the future— 
alone,” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


I F THERE is one true thing in life above all others it is 
that Man’s way and Woman’s way are not, nor ever will 
be, the same. This is difficult of acceptance. 

The Church and the State have sought, by reiteration, to 
make us believe them so—but to no avail. Blessed is it— 
if God’s way lies between, touching both as the sweet, run¬ 
ning river does, which separates the opposite banks but re¬ 
freshes and feeds them both from its divine store. 

Whilla Brookes met the day with but one thought—as 
Manville regarded the situation so would she plan her 
course. She had given him a simple, honest statement; she 
had acted her part well during the trying experience through 
which she had passed. She had, in her struggles, never lost 
sight of his interests, but Rose-Ann had gone back to her 
people; to the life for which she was best fitted—Rose-Ann 
had the world; the riches of the world. 

And she, Whilla Brookes, what had she? Nothing but 
him! Out of the wreck of life they two had come together, 
struggling up and out, alone, until the deserted past, in the 
form of Rose-Ann, entered their wilderness. 

What had he to do with Rose-Ann, if what he said of the 
revelation in South Africa were true? She, Whilla, should be 
his only concern after the vigil of the night. If he came to 
her and said: “You have done the best, the big thing. You 
have acted for me—as I could not have acted for myself. 
Let me prove to you that there is no other woman in 
God’s world for me but you,” she would withhold nothing; 
nothing. 

Standing with the morning sunlight on her face and think¬ 
ing the thoughts that are possible only at such moments, 
Whilla felt the pressure of a little hand on her heart. It was 


313 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


3 H 

not the hand of Rose-Ann’s baby, nor another’s—it was her 
child. She was still young. Manville could not make her, 
as the world absurdly thought, “respectable,” but he could 
make it possible for her, with her stern code of honour, to 
bear another child! 

As Whilla’s sense of right had, before, forbade her per¬ 
mitting Manville to pay the price, so it had forbade her 
bearing children who would have to pay what she could not. 
But now, surely now, Manville could trust the woman of 
her; she had proven herself. She had endured, for months, 
the sight and comradeship of another who felt she had a 
claim upon him—she had done it for his sake. 

Oh! surely he would understand. 

But Manville, also meeting the day, looked at it haggardly. 
There is never one woman for the average man. He may 
niche one and kneel before her lonely pedestal at times, but 
—and women must learn this—he loves and adores the 
woman who treads the paths of men with him. He wants 
her beside him—even in the dark; wants to clutch her hand 
while his eyes are fixed on other things. He expects of her— 
understanding. 

Deep in Manville’s heart lay the knowledge and the 
splendid significance of what Whilla had done. Some time, 
perhaps soon, that knowledge would rise supreme and flood 
them both with its radiance—but now and surely, Whilla, 
of all women, would agree that he must go to Middle Essex 
and make sure that all was well for Rose-Ann. No man of 
any decency could shirk, for the second time, such a re¬ 
sponsibility. 

Whilla had acted for him during his absence, but it was for 
him now to act. To force, if need be, the truth upon Brain¬ 
tree. He knew the Middle Essex state of.mind! 

The death of Compton, too, had cast a gloom over Man¬ 
ville; he had not estimated the hold that the quiet, lonely 
man had had upon him. For the moment the transfigured 
Whilla was hid from his sight while lesser things appeared. 

And so Manville came out of his room and met Whilla. 

She was moving about setting the breakfast things upon 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


3i5 

the table. The pleasant smell of food was in the air—the 
special batter cakes that he liked; the fragrance of coffee. 

Whilla wore a white linen dress—the neck of which lay 
open. Her face had a delicate flush—a hint of fever—that 
gave beauty to the clear skin. Her eyes were shining and 
full of welcome. 

“Ah! but it is good to have you back,” she said, but she did 
not go to him; nor did he go to her. He stood looking at her 
and her beauty disturbed him. He did not try to under¬ 
stand the sensation, but it was causing him to hesitate 
about his duty, and that dismayed him. 

He wanted, and oh! if Whilla could only have known, he 
wanted to stay with her; rest, here in his home. He was 
tired with his world tramping and late roughing; worn with 
the burden of confidences that had undone him. 

They sat opposite each other at the small round table 
drawn close to the roaring fire. 

“I want to hear about your trip,” Whilla said, and her 
hand, holding the coffee pot, trembled. She desperately 
sought to keep things normal. The question suggested the 
reason why the trip had not more fully been mentioned the 
night before, and their eyes fell. 

“Oh! it was some trip”; Manville rushed gladly into the 
opening; “the London success went to my head. It’s great, 
after losing your grip, amd making a fight for it, to find that 
you’ve got it again. 

“It makes you want to clean house and stand up straight— 
honest-to-God-and-man! To know that you can look the 
world in the face—the world that you’ve managed to get the 
best of.” Manville laughed his big, free laugh. Then went 
on: 

“Then I ship^d into Darkest Africa and rooted out my 
man. You’ll be crazy about him, Whilla. Such a sur¬ 
prising chap. Out there, managing a lot of semi-savages. 
Why, they lap his hand and look like little Saint Johns run¬ 
ning around loose and naked. What he doesn’t know about 
mining might just as well be left alone. I swear, it almost 
makes you feel that he puts the ore in where there isn’t any. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


316 

“I had expected to find a big, burly brute of a fellow—and 
I found—” again Manville laughed, a bit uneasily—“well,” 
he added lamely—“one of those jokes God plays on us, now 
and then! 

“Why, that fellow, Whilla, is like a woman in his notions. 
I suspect he says ‘Now I lay me’ at night, and yet he gets 
there! And he has all his men with him. He don’t talk 
much, but he sees that everyone has a square deal, and you 
feel it. 

“When he comes here—and it took all there was in me to 
get him to promise to come—I want to give him the best, as 
he gave the best to me. He’s like that. Makes you feel 
like pulling yourself up by your leggings. He reminded me 
of Compton.” 

“I see.” Whilla spoke quietly. “Want some more coffee, 
Eric?” 

“Yes—there never was such coffee as yours—I used to tell 
Grainger that when we were drinking his tea .” 

“You told him about me, Eric?” 

“Yes—he thinks you are my wife; and you will be when 
he sees you.” 

The red flooded Whilla’s face. 

“I couldn’t buy Grainger,” Manville spoke casually, not 
noting the colour his words had brought to the face across the 
table; “but I got under the skin and touched the homesick 
spot. He’s an American, though he’s got the English 
manner—his father was a miner, curiously enough, in Colo¬ 
rado; Grainger was born here. I laid it on strong about the 
chance here; the scenery and climate—and he fell for it. 
He’s rounding things up out there and then, as he says, he’s 
coming home.” 

Manville got up. He looked rested, satisfied. Several 
contacts had been made during the meal and one tragic 
break that he was to discover later. 

“And now, my girl, let’s do the ranch!” 

Manville was always keen about the duty nearest at hand. 

All day they rode, and covered many miles. They 
dismounted, investigated, and shared the company of de- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


3 i 7 


tached groups of men. They remounted and galloped on. 
They built a fire on the rocks and ate the noonday meal. 
Manville was in great spirits, but through her joy in the 
fleeting moment Whilla was bidding it all good-bye. 

At the day’s end they were tired but full of the exaltation 
that a well-finished task gives. Manville had the reins 
again well in hand. Whilla listened to his surprised delight 
of her handling of his business and all bitterness was gone 
from her heart. It had come—as it always comes to such 
women as she—that is, if they are decent and refuse to take 
the price that was never agreed upon. 

It was not, now, so much, the possibility of Rose-Ann’s 
future relations with Manville, as the thought that had been 
forced upon her by the breakfast talk. 

All Manville’s success in the years ahead lay coupled with 
the man Grainger’s. There must be no weak spot in the 
chain that was to hold them. She must help along the ap¬ 
pearance of respectability; she must not shock this man 
whose ideals were far removed from what Manville’s, secretly, 
were! 

Whilla had been hurt where her sensibilities were keenest. 
After dinner they sat where the night before they had sat. 
“After all,” the woman thought, “how little, really, there is 
in common between us; now that the time has come.” 

And Manville, hardly thinking , but feeling deeply, was 
experiencing that comfortable state of being when one can 
relax body and soul. It was good to find Whilla there as 
he glanced through his half-closed lids. It was like coming 
safely to the trail’s end with everything intact and no need 
to worry. 

“Whilla!” 

“Yes, Eric.” 

“The way you’ve managed my job —our job—while I’ve 
been away is simply magnificent. On my soul, I wouldn’t 
have believed it possible, even knowing what I do.” 

“I’m mighty glad, Eric. I enjoyed it.” Whilla smiled 
bravely. 

“And the rest—the handling of little Rose-Ann Braintree! 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


318 

My God, Whilla, I don’t believe another woman in the 
world could have done what you’ve done there. It was like 
steering a damaged ship to a safe port. 

“But—you’ll understand—I must make sure it is safe.” 

“You are going to Middle Essex?” 

“I must, Whilla. I’ll be back in three weeks at the 
latest.” 

Then Manville looked keenly at the woman near him. 
Something disturbed him; troubled him. 

“Whilla, shall we be married before I go? You could 
come part way with me.” 

For a moment Whilla made no reply. The heart of her was 
aching dully, but in her refusal to heed it she seemed hard and 
cold. 

“After you come back, Eric, we will talk of this,” she said 
presently. 

“Whilla, what ails you?” 

Manville was utterly dumbfounded. For the time the 
river flowing between his way and the way of woman was 
not touching the understanding of the spirit. 

“Are you thinking of me—or yourself, Whilla?” 

“Of us both, Eric.” 

“Then, in heaven’s name, think only of yourself. I can 
take care of my end. I told you last night how I felt—I 
want you because you belong to me—to the life we’ve made 
together. Things are going to be different—but I want you 
to go on with me as you have been going on from the first— 
changing the colour of things can’t change the thing.” 

The truth of what Manville was saying rang in his words, 
in his perplexed, hurt face. 

“Oh! my dear, my dear!” the yearning in Whilla’s soul 
made its cry; “this seems the only thing left for me to do for 
you!” 

“I will not take your offering, your sacrifice.” Manville 
stood up. “Come here!” he said; but Whilla did not move 
except to raise her eyes to his face. 

“But I will promise to give you my answer—when you 
come back,” she said, as if arguing. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


3 i 9 

“You’ll marry me then, Whilla, you understand? No 
woman has a right, for any fool reason, to smash the best 
things in life to pieces.” 

Manville never forgot the look he saw in Whilla’s eyes; 
it puzzled him then—he understood by and by. 

He bent and kissed her. 

“This is a queer stretch for you and me to come to,” he 
said, and an amused smile touched his lips; “after all our 
years together—to hold each other at arm’s length until 
some glib words are muttered over us. Well! I can do even 
that for you, my girl. Good-night.” 

“Good-night, Eric. I’m thanking you for this, this last 
bit you’re doing for me—only I cannot put it in words. 
When are you going?” 

“To-morrow.” Manville looked grim. “The sooner I 
end this farce, the better and safer for us both!” 

“Again, Eric, thank you. And please—let this be good¬ 
bye—until the—the farce—is ended!” 

Whilla got up, clung to him; smiled at him. 

“I was thinking,” she whispered, “of something I said to 
Rose-Ann once. Life is funny—until you feel it—then it 
hurts. We’ve been feeling it, my dear, and that never will 
do, never.” 

And, while Manville wearily travelled down to do his duty, 
impatient at the necessity, dreading the outcome, Whilla 
took up the reins of government, temporarily again, but 
her thoughts were of different things. 

Gradually she seemed to forget Manville. He merely 
represented the Inevitable that she was beating her wings 
against—for poor Whilla was developing wings. No matter 
how the Inevitable and she fixed it up to meet the ideals of 
others, she would know, he would know, and always 
there would be the Whisper which a few would hear and 
listen to. 

Eric would grimly stand by her—full well she knew that; 
but the necessity for standing by her was the thing that 
hurt. 

Life had opened and widened for Manville. Success! 


320 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


success! He had been triumphant and wanted to drag her 
with him. Drag her! 

Women—Rose-Ann’s kind would make excuses for her; 
other sorts would pity Manville. And then the growing old! 
Having nothing to offer that Manville could not obtain for 
himself; the lagging behind; the dragging on—and on—with 
their memory between them. 

Whilla knew; she had seen enough of that. But if, alone 
in her bed, she smiled at the open door as if welcoming 
something that only her straining eyes could see; “if I 
slipped out—now while he wants me, needs me, while I have 
something to give, I could keep him—he would think of me 
as I want to be thought of. I am afraid to grow old!” 

There were days, cold, stormy days when Whilla lived 
closely with the things that she and Manville had built up 
together; there were black nights when she toyed with the 
pistol. 

Manville was never to know how she had used that as a 
threat when men—beasts of men—came lurking during his 
absence. Always she had been alert for him. Well—it was 
for him—now! 

But at the test she quailed. She was not so old but that 
life clutched her. There were still more doors than one for 
her. 

If she went away, was not waiting when Manville came 
back! 

Suppose he made the final choice alone when he returned, 
without her disturbing claim—what then ? 

And so Whilla set the house in order; left a letter in the tall 
clock where Manville would be sure to find it—and set forth, 
two days before his arrival, presumably to meet him. 

She had always had her own money—it had been a fair 
partnership—and Whilla went protected by that—into 
another open space. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


A S MANVILLE travelled down from the mountains, a 
ZA feeling of oppression grew upon him. His former 
A. visit had held curiosity; mystery; that was utterly 
lacking now. 

When he began to knock up against people, he lost his 
temper, and the necessity for the doing of what he was about 
to do irritated him. 

He hoped that he would find, upon reaching Middle 
Essex, that things were not as bad as Whilla had led him to 
think. He would, in that case, make the death of Compton 
the reason for his appearance and return as soon as possible. 

That things should have lasted from June to September 
as Whilla had described seemed incredible. A husband and 
wife living apart, but in sight of each other for months with 
a hideous misunderstanding about a baby holding them 
apart, was unbelievable. Surely, by now, one or the other 
had become convinced of the absurdity. 

“It would be like a Gilbert and Sullivan farce,” Manville 
reflected; and a smile, suggestive of a sneer, touched his face. 

And then as the train was hustling along, between Chicago 
and New York, Whilla Brookes came so sharply in Manville’s 
mind that it seemed as if she had physically boarded the 
train. 

“She played a big part—in the farce.” Manville closed 
his eyes in order to hold’Whilla’s vision. “It might all have 
been a damned hideous tragedy but for Whilla.” 

Man is a curious animal. He marks and sets his own 
traps and then deliberately walks into them. Manville 
snapped one now. Reflecting upon the role Whilla had filled, 
now that the distance was widening between him and her, she 
took on a new significance and force. Had she been Man- 


321 


322 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


ville’s wife her deed would have been none the less noble, but 
it would have been upheld by an authority that poor Whilla, 
not being a wife, utterly lacked, and so it added to the 
appeal. 

Viewed from this point the recent past was flooded by 
light that touched everything, Whilla included. 

“Could she have done it”—Manville breathed quicker and 
opened his eyes—“had she really cared as much as Tve taken 
for granted ?” 

The little serpent was rearing its head. Rose-Ann sank 
into the shadow while Whilla loomed large. 

“I should have insisted upon her marrying me before I 
came on this fool errand.” 

Whilla was assuming the proportions of the desired—but 
unpossessed. 

Manville, however, comforted himself with the thought: 
“no tie could hold Whilla—a mere tie.” This gave cold 
support, but it meant something. 

That was the power that had carried her where she was in 
his life. Other women would have come out sullied—but not 
she! 

Still the grim fact that Whilla would not marry him until 
his return disturbed him. 

“She’s cut my anchor,” thought Manville. “She’s set 
the highest price upon herself, by God!” 

And at that moment, had she but known it, Whilla Brookes 
had won her victory. 

In his present mood Manville contemplated his interview, 
if one proved necessary, in anything but a complacent state 
of mind. 

He’d give Braintree fair play—he was prepared to lay all 
his cards on the table. He had been an ass, Manville ad¬ 
mitted; “a progressive one!” he added, “but by the Lord 
Harry, I’ll get the truth through that cast-iron shield of his 
or I’ll smash everything in sight.” 

Manville contemplated with positive relish the devastation 
that might possibly occur. 

“And then I’ll go to Rose-Ann,” he ended lamely. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


323 


It was one thing to roll up his sleeves and hammer his man, 
but what was he to do with a woman who had fled from every¬ 
thing for his sake; had returned, for his sake, to her blackened 
ruins and faced what Braintree and his ilk might have forced 
her to face? 

Old memories of Puritan interpretation of justice caused 
Manville to grit his teeth. 

“All right!” he grimly thought as his train drew into the 
South Station, “we’ve all got to stand up and take the truth, 
the whole truth, by the Lord, and then let it have its way 
with us.” 

This brought a kind of stern courage. It was a working 
basis at least. 

Manville stayed one night and day in Boston; then he took 
an early evening train for Middle Essex. 

He planned to bring Braintree to terms, if what Whilla had 
told him still held true—or leave him battered to the ground 
by ten o’clock at the latest; then he would go down to Essex. 
In either case, he argued, he would need the bracing walk in 
the night air. He would put up at the Mills’ Arms and see 
Rose-Ann in the morning. After that? Well, after that, 
Manville acknowledged there was an open waste of undis¬ 
covered country—after that! 

It was eight o’clock when Manville rang the bell of 
Braintree’s house. 

Maggie, about to leave, opened the door, recognized Man¬ 
ville, and felt her sluggish blood race through her veins. 

“Tell Mr. Braintree I wish to see him.” The tone had all 
the ring of command. Maggie departed and announced 
simply: 

“There’s a gentleman, sir, wanting to speak with you.” 

“Show him in here.” 

This Maggie did, and fled. 

Braintree looked up, recognized his caller, turned a shade 
whiter, rose, pointed to a chair, and remarked as they both 
sat down: 

“So you have come!” 

Manville saw, as Rose-Ann had seen, the change in Brain- 


324 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


tree. He had suffered and—lived! There was no doubt 
about that. He was more alive than he had ever been; he 
was going on along inherited lines—but he was moving; not 
holding an entrenched position without struggle. 

“Braintree,” Manville was suddenly overcome by the 
gravity of the situation, “this isn’t easy for either of us. We 
might as well get it over as best we can, even if we bungle. 

“Is your wife here?” 

“She is not.” Braintree did not flinch. He recognized 
the impossibility of ordering Manville from the house, and 
if he stayed, the ugly interview must be gone through with¬ 
out danger of further scandal—there had been enough of 
that. 

“She is in her own house; the late Mr. Compton’s,” he 
added. 

“I had heard that, I had hoped it was not true, or at least, 
was not, now,” Manville broke in. Then: “See here, 
Braintree, let us begin at the roots of this misunderstanding. 

“I’ve been away from America nearly a year; when I left 
here I went directly abroad on business which was more or 
less confidential. I have not seen your wife since I—left 
Middle Essex. I returned to my home in the West—less than 
a fortnight ago—there I learned of this—mess. Good God! 
looked at one way it is a howling farce, but I came as soon as 
I could—to straighten it out.” 

Braintree nodded but did not speak. Unable to see any 
humour in the situation, he regarded Manville stonily. 

“The child”—here Manville’s voice broke and it shook 
when he went on—“I suppose that is the crux of the matter: 
that, and what it signifies, Braintree, but I swear—the child 
is—yours!” 

The words sounded crass and weak. Manville brought to 
bay by his bungling attempt to right things stared blankly 
at Braintree and added: 

“Good God! You do not believe that! You are dealing 
with the situation from your ignorance, you won’t hear—the 
truth!” 

The sudden collapse of his plan for the moment left Man- 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


325 

ville hopeless. Then Braintree did the unexpected thing—he 
swept the rubbish from both their paths and took the situa¬ 
tion in his own hands. 

“Manville, you need not explain or protest. When my 
wife returned, she came to me, and I did not, then, believe 
what she said! It seemed to me, at that time, to be a weak 
but natural attempt to right conditions for her—her child’s 
sake in order to live among her people and enjoy the inherit¬ 
ance that had come to her from Compton. I had ground, I 
thought, for my belief. 

“Since then”—Braintree moistened his lips—“I have 
made some investigation—and I have seen—the child; seen 
it several times.” He paused, and Manville, watching him as 
one watches returning hope, saw the shadow of a deep sorrow 
grow in the clear eyes. 

“I know now that the child is mine! I have proof 
that you have not seen my wife—since you left here. 

I know that my wife lived in your house with-” He got no 

further. 

Manville raised his hand—there was command in the 
gesture and Braintree, after a moment, went on: 

“It was a most amazing situation; I am not blind to its 
significance, but—and now I cannot expect a man like you, 
Manville, to sympathize with me, nor understand me, for 
we are as far apart in our views as two men could well be, 
but I am going to—speak the plain truth to you. 

“I loved and trusted my wife—absolutely. To me, love 
and trust are inseparable. I could not love without confi¬ 
dence and respect. 

“When my wife dealt me the blow she did, it shattered 
all that, to me, was sacred and pure. That she was saved 
from the worst effect of her folly does not in the least do 
away with the fact that only circumstances prevented her. 
To all intents-” 

Manville, at this, leaned forward. He clasped his hands 
until the nails cut into the flesh; only the black trouble in 
Braintree’s eyes withheld him from dealing a bitter blow. 

“See here, Braintree,” he said, “so far, you seem to have 




THE TENTH WOMAN 


326 

thought only of yourself, and you’ve taken your own damned 
time for your investigations. Good God, man, can you not 
get out of sight for a moment while you consider someone 
else? Your wife? Me? In a moment I’m going to say 
something about the difference between us, but right here I 
want to put a question to you. 

“Suppose I had been in my home when your wife, fleeing 
from God only knows what kind of a ghost, arrived—what do 
you think I would have done?” 

The bald question, set into the conditions that suddenly 
Braintree visualized, staggered him; broke his calm. He 
began to realize that his self-created world now was swinging 
in space. 

“ I—do not know,” he said frankly. 

“And you’ve never given me—or your wife—the benefit of 
that doubt. You’re a devilish hard man, Braintree, but I’m 
going to do you the credit of believing that you are a just one. 
You have your ideals; your code—well, so have I; so have we 
all, when the test comes. Your wife is as innocent of wrong 
as your child—she fled from the hardness in you that amounts 
to nothing less than crime. Braintree, that woman who 
stood by your wife when you and I were shoved off the scene 
you would call anything but a good woman, but she did the 
big, splendid thing; did it better than either you or I could 
have done it. She gave time and opportunity for your wife 
to learn to live—live as her life with you had never per¬ 
mitted. That woman was acting for me; looking out for my 
interest, never thinking of herself; never counting the cost— 
to herself. It was superb and—she means everything in life 
to me! 

“ Had I been there when your wife came, I know—I would 
have done my best; done it badly, no doubt; but done it! 
You and your kind haven’t all the virtue in the world by a 
damned sight!” 

This was flung out like a blow to the flickering shadow on 
Braintree’s face. 

“And now I come to the difference between us, Braintree. 
Were you ever tempted by the devil in you ?” The sudden, 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


327 


detached question came like a missile following a challenge. 
“The devil that can twist a meaningless thing into a bruising 
cause for remorse ?” 

“No!” Braintree took up arms in his own defence. “I 
am not aware that I—I have a devil!” He ignored the 
latter part of Manville’s question. 

“Then how, in the name of God,” Manville asked, “can 
you, dare you, judge them who have?” 

A heavy silence fell between the men. To ease the strain 
he was under, Braintree got up, drew the heavy curtains over 
the window, and closed the door into the hall. It was like 
barricading against another unlooked-for attack. Then he 
came back and sat down. 

Manville had not moved; but the veins were swollen on his 
forehead. 

“You—no living man—has the right to judge,” Manville 
held Braintree with his fierce eyes. 

“Tve worked my way up, Braintree, by fighting inch by 
inch. I know the value of every tussle and I’ve come to a 
point where I dare hand out a few facts to men like you—who 
have never had to tackle life at first hand and throttle it: 
to feel the glory of a little gain, even while slipping back: to 
know the value of a human hand stretched out to you at a 
moment when you think you’re going under. That’s been 
my life; the life of millions like me—and what has yours 
been? Where has your hand been during the tussle that we 
are all in?” 

Into Braintree’s mind, his clean, guarded mind, there 
seemed to be a blinding light. Shrinking, feeling his way, 
he spoke to the man before him. 

“I think, as I see you now, Manville,” he said, “that you 
would not have acted the scoundrel, had you been at home 
when my wife went to you—but you must see that this does 
not exonerate my wife! 

“Your position would have been desperate—a man facing 
what you would have faced then hasn’t much choice.” 

Manville lifted his head—and glared at Braintree defiantly. 

“My God!” he cried. “Can’t you think of her; what she 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


328 

has learned; what suffered ? You drove her to the learning— 
and at your door lies the wrong. 

“What is the thing you call love made of? What is it for? 
What good is it? Is it something to which others can cling; 
or is it something for them to beat their poor lives out 
against? 

“It is what your wife is now that matters, Braintree, not 
what she was. I haven’t seen her, but I’d wager my last hope 
of happiness that she is finer, bigger than she would ever 
have been had you had your way with her. 

“Go to her now and ask her why she came back! That’s 
all that will count. She need not have come, you know. 
Some poor devils of women have to come, or think they have 
to, on any terms men offer them—but your wife did not. 

“Good God, Braintree, who are we—we men, that we dare 
deal so with women ?” 

“Stop!” Braintree’s face was livid. He was facing 
temptation at last and he realized it. All his stern inherit¬ 
ance seemed crumbling under him; his austere justice that 
could flay its own, when its ideals were spurned, trembled in 
the scales. His weakness: quivering, human weakness, was 
tempting him. 

The hungry, devouring longing for Rose-Ann overpowered 
his reason—he saw her as she had a few weeks before stood 
before him, asking him how he would feel if he found that he 
had wronged another? And he had wronged her! With 
appearances against her—he knew her to be innocent then, 
but he had turned her away: had pushed her from him. He 
saw only that she had wronged him—that had been enough. 
Himself; himself! 

She had gone from him—pitying him. She had gone 
proudly; she had lost her fear of him—something had set her 
free. He had known that, then, and had recoiled bitterly 
from the knowledge that his dominion was at an end. 

But now—he knew that if he went to her, as Manville was 
suggesting, he would find a woman worthy—worthy of the 
best that was in him, not the weakest. He had fought against 
that truth—he bowed before it now. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


329 


“Go and ask her why she came?” Manville was thunder¬ 
ing the question into the still room. “I’m not going to tell 
you—anything; she may tell what she feels is best to tell you, 
what—she feels you can understand. 

“For God’s sake, Braintree, don’t try to play the part of 
the Almighty—no man is big enough, but you are bigger, or 
I miss my guess, than the thing that has been handed down 
to you. You’ve split your shell; outgrown it-” 

“Stop!” Again Braintree spoke the word and held up a 
warning hand. 

“I will tell you this, Manville, I promise to see my wife 
to-morrow. I will ask her why she came back. Is—this 
enough—for to-night ? I can stand no more.” 

Both men stood up—they reached out trembling hands. 

“It’s good-bye—Braintree. I start back to-morrow— 
for my place. There is work for me to do there. 

“Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye, Manville—good-bye.” 

The day following Manville’s devastating visit was as 
warm as midsummer. 

Rose-Ann, with her sleeping baby stretched across her 
knees, sat in the little rustic arbour in Barry Compton’s 
garden. Behind her was the high brick wall against which 
stood stately hollyhocks bowing their regal heads as if in 
recognition of someone walking slowly, happily, on the paths 
below. 

And Rose-Ann, closing her eyes, could almost fancy that 
she heard footsteps—dear, familiar footsteps—near her. 
It was wonderfully comforting—that sense of feeling that 
Barry was among the flowers he had loved so well. 

From the closed eyes teardrops fell—not unhappy tears, 
but lonely ones. Rose-Ann was often lonely in spite of her 
brave resolves to expect nothing that could not be granted 
freely, lovingly, and with faith. 

And then, just as the tears dried on the sweet face, Patsy 
appeared, a basket of bulbs in one hand, a trowel in the 
other. One glance at her mistress’s face and poor Patsy’s 


330 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


cheerful countenance quivered even while an angry gleam 
darkened her blue eyes. 

“Shall I take the blessed to the house?” she asked. 

“No, Patsy. I love to have her sleep here in the garden. 
I think she has wonderful dreams—see! she is smiling.” 

Patsy knelt as before a shrine and bent her head over 
small Helen. 

“She’s growing the beautifullest ever,” she murmured. 
Then: “And the spittin’ image, if I do say it—who hates to, 
ma’am.” 

“Yes; she is very like her father, Patsy, and he saw her 
again yesterday?” 

“He did that, ma’am. I left the carriage and the blessed 
in it by the side door of his house, ma’am, and himself came 
out and stopped, while Maggie and I peeped from the kitchen 
window. He looked around—a man does shure hate to be 
seen doing the grandest things of his life, ma’am, and then, 
with me and Maggie hid, but seeing straight enough, he 
lifted the hand of the blessed and—kissed it, ma’am!” 

“You are sure, Patsy—he kissed it?” 

Rose-Ann’s voice trembled. 

“That’s God’s truth, ma’am, and the face of him had 
that effect upon Maggie, ma’am, that she went straight 
and made that apple pie, ma’am, as he always had a liking 
for.” 

Rose-Ann again closed her eyes while the shadows from the 
tall trees above her cast little, flickering shades as the leaves 
rustled and danced. 

When next she dared to look at Patsy, that tactful girl 
was burying the wrinkled bulbs in the rich earth by the 
stepping stones—her rigid back to the two in the arbour. 

“I do say, ma’am,” she confided, “as it takes a mighty 
lot of faith to see flowers when you bury these.” 

“Yes; doesn’t it, Patsy? There is a great deal of faith 
needed at times—to see flowers.” 

Patsy finished her task of faith and stood up. 

“Cleaver, ma’am, told me to ask you would you like your 
luncheon served out of doors, ma’am? It being warm and 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


33 i 

cheerful like, Cleaver thought you’d be fancying a bit of a 
picnic.” 

“Oh! I’d love that, Patsy. And when Cleaver brings 
the lunch, you may come and take the baby.” 

Patsy smiled and went away and then Rose-Ann relaxed. 
With her eyes closed once more, she crooned to the sleeping 
child and let her thoughts wander as they would. Back and 
forth on the shuttle of love, they touched Whilla Brookes 
among the white-capped hills. 

“I wonder if Eric is with her now?” Rose-Ann’s lips 
twitched. 

“Oh! how strange and jumbled life is,” she sighed and 
shook her head. Life was never to be an easy thing to 
Rose-Ann. 

Then back came the shuttle and touched Braintree— 
kissing his baby’s hand! 

“Oh! if being so good makes folks so unhappy, and if 
being just happy makes others so good, what does it all 
mean ?” 

Again Rose-Ann sighed, and small Helen opened her lovely 
blue eyes, saw the dear face near, and went again to sleep. 

Rose-Ann presently ceased to wonder or sing to her baby— 
for a moment she drifted to the magic border-line of conscious 
and unconscious thought where miracles are the most com¬ 
monplace happenings. 

There were steps, hurried but cautious steps, on the grassy 
path—Barry would come that way, so glad; so glad to find her 
waiting for him! 

“Oh! my dear, my dear.” That would be Barry’s way of 
calling to her, and in her dream Rose-Ann tried to go and 
meet him, but the baby held her back. 

“My dear, my dear!” 

That was not Barry’s voice! Rose-Ann started and looked 
U P* 

Braintree stood in the door of the arbour and his look 
reached out to Rose-Ann and seemed physically to touch her. 

“Billy!” she faltered. 

“Oh! Rose-Ann why did you come back? That is all 


332 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


that matters; all that ever will matter. Can you tell me 
that, dear child? I want to understand!” 

Rose-Ann tried to speak, tried to smile, but she could only 
hold her hand out to him over their child, and motion him 
beside her. 

Then they were silent—looking at the baby face with 
God’s marks of identification so clearly upon it. 

“I—I wronged you terribly, Rose-Ann.” 

“And I—you, Billy. We did not know each other—but 
it was love that drove us apart—love can do that, you know.” 

“Yes, it can, but if it doesn’t die, it can work miracles.” 
Braintree leaned forward and took the baby’s rose-leaf hand 
in his. 

Rose-Ann watched him. She saw the change in him; she 
knew that the thing that had held him from her, the thing 
that had made it impossible for her to reach in him what her 
love craved, what it always had believed was there—was 
gone; gone! 

They were together; she could speak and he could under¬ 
stand ! 

Oh! the glory of the realization. He could understand! 

“I came back”—Rose-Ann heard herself speaking hur¬ 
riedly, eagerly, as if she could not too quickly offer her best 
to him—“I came because I was—free to choose. I wanted 
our baby to have its own. I did not matter, nor you, either, 
Billy, half so much as our baby mattered. 

“I wanted her to have these dear and blessed places of— 
home. They were hers, and I had taken her from them. I 
wanted her to have her father—I had no right to deprive her 
of him. 

“I think, my dear, that our child needs us—both! We 
can—oh! I know it now—we can find each other through 
her—the baby brought me home!” 

Braintree gathered Rose-Ann and his child into his arms. 

“I only know that I have found you, Rose-Ann,” he whis¬ 
pered. “I think I never saw you before!” 

“Billy, you can trust me?” 

“With my soul, Rose-Ann.” 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


3 33 


“And your love?” 

“With our love, my wife.” 

“Billy, do you want us to come?” 

Rose-Ann’s eyes were shining, and then from the depth 
of the perfect understanding, Braintree spoke: 

“We began wrong, my dear, in our first home. I fear we 
are not the pioneers we believed ourselves. Others may 
make a better showing. 

“I should like, Rose-Ann, to carry on, all of us right here, 
the things that Barry Compton loved.” 

“Oh! my Billy.” Rose-Ann lifted her happy eyes to his— 
“My own, my own.” Then: 

“I know—Barry is here, in his garden.” 

And Braintree, too, felt the presence. 


CHAPTER XXV 


E RIC MANVILLE’S course was marked always by 
storm and stress. What he gained was gained through 
conflict. 

When he reached Tim’s Corners, where the lopsided, 
breathless little train left him, he stood for a moment on the 
platform of the station, waiting while the station master 
locked up the building. 

The smell of the pines was in Manville’s nostrils; the wind, 
icy-touched by its flight over snowy ranges, beat against his 
face with rude welcome—he had come home! 

“Well!” said the station master, joining Manville, “you 
look like you’d got something, down back there, to chaw 
on.” 

“That’s about it,” Manville replied, pulling himself 
upright so that he might better inhale the blessed air; “but 
I tell you, Dowley, I had to bring my bone up here to maul. 
I can’t digest anything back there.” 

“I never seed any one who could—properly”; Dowley nod¬ 
ded understandingly—“they make a bluff at it, but it ain’t 
the real thing. Anything new about the mines, Eric?” 

“Yes!” Manville’s eyes glittered. “We’re going to 
make things hum in another year, Dowley. Get a gang of men 
together; pick them up as fast as you can, and you needn’t 
count them. 

“The thing that ails us Yankees is that we have such a 
wealth of everything that we skim the cream, and then try 
another rich streak, leaving the old, thinking we’ve emptied 
it. Dowley, the best is yet to be brought to light and I’m 
going to help bring it!” 

“That sounds good, Eric. It isn’t pipe talk, eh?” 

“I don’t talk gaff, old man. And these roads”—they were 

334 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


335 

bouncing over the hummocks at the moment—“are going 
to be roads, not bombardments; and we’re going to clean up 
the low dives, too. I’m no reformer, but when it comes to 
some men having their rights and leaving hell for the rest, 
Tm against them. If I had my way I’d block off a ranch, 
wall it up, and label it ‘Hell’; and all who like that altitude 
and environment could stake out a claim and—stay there!” 

Dowley laughed, bounced up on his seat, and came down 
hard. 

“I reckon,” he sputtered, “that there’d be a bunch who’d 
like passes to go in and look on.” 

“All right, and I’d have passes for them to come out, too, 
but by heaven, they’d have to qualify to get out.” 

“Well”—Dowley urged his horses on—the roads were too 
bad for his heavy motor truck—“I’ll stand by yer, Eric. 
I’ve had my day and seen the results of it—’tain’t pleasant 
to look back on—when the nights are long.” 

On they jogged—Manville with the future bright before 
him; Dowley with his memories, dark and haunting. 

The moon came up over the pines, serene and bright; the 
cold grew more intense. 

“Drop me at the side trail, Dowley, I’m chilled to the 
marrow.” Eric rose up and through the trees saw the lights 
of his home shining and the smell of wood smoke greeted him 
like perfume. The Canyon of the Spirits had depressed him. 

“Can you drive up to the back, have a meal, and stop for 
the night ?” 

“No, thank you. I must move on—there’s a box of fodder 
for the men up ter Big Giant, and there’s sickness up there, 
too. I must rustle on.” 

Manville, with his bag on his back, struck eagerly up his 
home trail. As he neared the house he fell into a slower gait— 
the anticipation of all that he longed for was so sweet that he 
revelled in it. A man may love to roam, but his soul knows 
its home! 

He stepped noiselessly on to the porch and pushed the door 
gently, his hand upon the latch. 

Then he was in the warm, empty room. The fire burned 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


336 

ruddily—everything was in its place, a terrifying orderliness 
that struck a chill to his heart. The room looked strange, 
as a room does that is set to rights after a funeral. 

Never before had Manville returned home and not found 
Whilla awaiting him. His first sensation was of alarm—but 
that always made him cautious. 

He strode to the kitchen. There, too, the fire, freshly 
replenished, snapped in the range; and the same grim order 
greeted him. 

Then Manville opened the door overlooking the men’s 
cabins. In one, lights were blazing, the scraping of a fiddle 
sounded and the shuffling feet of dancing men. 

Manville shouted, and on the instant the scene changed. 
As an Oriental’s handclap brings human beings to his bidding, 
so now the men and boys came rushing forward, pleasure and 
welcome on their rough faces. 

“Where’s-” For the first time in all the years Manville 

hesitated. The title carelessly used before—“Mrs. Man¬ 
ville”—stuck in his throat. 

“She went three days ago,” it was the house boy who 
spoke, “to meet you, we thought. A kind of surprise. She 
took her luggage along—yer see, we didn’t expect you so 
soon or we’d have been on the job.” 

A gray shadow crossed Manville’s face. 

“We must have missed each other,” he said quietly; 
“she probably took the high pass—the low road is devilish 
bad. 

“Give me something to eat. To-morrow I’ll locate her.” 

Manville ate and then, when the house was again clear 
of the men, he took his pipe and stretched his legs to the fire. 

Never in his broken and patched career had he experienced 
such depression. At first it was anger that held him; then 
resentment followed. He felt beaten and trapped. 

Then—and this shook him—he realized that he was not 
surprised. He had expected something: not the bald deser¬ 
tion certainly, but a readjustment. He had simply over¬ 
taken what had been inevitably awaiting him. This was no 
blow in the dark. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


337 

He sat staring into the fire, then turned and noted the 
details of the quiet, orderly room. There was a finality 
about everything that unnerved him. His anger and re¬ 
sentment passed—one cannot hold such thoughts against 
the—dead! 

The dead! And with that Manville was stung to life. 

At that moment, too, the clock struck nine. The metallic 
tones seemed to be words, not strokes. They called Man- 
ville’s attention to something. 

Of course there was a note. Of course it would be in the 
old clock. That was where he and Whilla always hid private 
papers or left instructions when one or the other was called 
away. 

Manville got up heavily and walked to the shelf. 

Yes! There it was. The square white envelope ad¬ 
dressed in Whilla’s firm, large handwriting. 

It did not seem to matter much to Manville what the 
contents were—Whilla was gone! However, he went back to 
his seat and opened the letter. 

I could not wait to talk it over with you, Eric. You might have 
said something to make me stay—women are like that. They 
flinch and have to pay later. 

I want you to believe that little Rose-Ann Braintree has nothing 
to do with my decision—except that in helping her to see her way 
out, I saw my own. She did not belong here—it frightened her. 
The place; we, everything. She had to get hold of herself and go 
back. We all have to do that, in one way or another. Eric, I am 
going because I am afraid of what lies before. Your new life; your 
ambitions fulfilled—but most of all I am afraid of old age and what 
it would mean to women like me! 

I am not sacrificing myself for you, Eric, I am saving myself—the 
self that has grown up beside you—for myself and the time on ahead. 
It will be good company then. 

Do not fear for me. I have money. I’ll make a place for myself 
somewhere, and when I have made it, I will let you know. 

If you will think over what I have just written, you will see my 
side. 

Manville read and re-read the grim words. And then, 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


338 

because he was so truly the man that Whilla Brookes knew 
full well, he stretched his legs before the fire and—thought 
it out! Oddly enough, something that Compton had once 
said to him at a bad hour came to him now: 

“We talk glibly of what we must do with life. We will 
largely do with it what life has already done with us!” 

Well, what had life actually done with Manville? 

With stern honesty he acknowledged that he had, while 
in England and Africa, contemplated his relations with 
Whilla anxiously. What he had taken for granted before 
rose accusingly then. But his anxiety, he relievedly thought, 
was grounded upon the fact that he respected Whilla. Yes, 
thank God. Life had done that with him. 

Those men over there could condone a certain relationship 
if it bore the usual earmarks—but his relationship with Whilla 
lacked those symbols. The test had proved that. He had 
felt that marriage would place Whilla beyond the criticism 
that the future might evolve; he had not considered him¬ 
self. 

But would it? A woman, such a woman as he now knew 
Whilla to be, saw deeper, truer. 

Manville’s lips grew close and hard as he thought of his 
own heedlessness. He had not considered that, while he 
struggled to his goal, the woman beside him had struggled 
also, had developed into something so large and fine that he 
was humiliated as he reflected now upon her sensations 
when he offered marriage in the light of the significance she 
well might have put upon it. 

It would seem to her, the woman he now understood— 
little less than an insult; an effort brutally to make safe his 
own position. 

And then, because he was tired to the verge of exhaustion; 
because, do what he might, he could not see straight, Man¬ 
ville drifted into a semi-conscious state bordering upon that 
unreality that often holds solution. 

He saw, as in a dream, himself and Whilla on horseback 
and the night was around them. They were going from the 
grave of the man who had cared for Whilla—loved her in his 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


339 

way—but who had left her unprovided for. She had come to 
the wilderness with him escaping, thereby, the brutal hus¬ 
band who jeeringly flouted her but would not set her 
free. 

Everyone knew that; ignored it—were friends in spite of 
it. 

With the night around them, the grave behind them, 
Manville had asked: 

“Where now?” 

Whilla had laughed desolately. 

“I don’t know. Back to the cabin, I suppose—until I 
can—think.” 

Then, because they had been friends in the sense that iso¬ 
lation and the wilderness evolves, Manville had asked: 

“Will—you come up to the Lone Two?” 

Although they could not see each other, they turned their 
faces toward each other. The woman knew what her fate 
threatened. There must be someone to help her out; some 
man. Always some man. Why not Manville? She could 
not be particular. 

“All right!” she had spoken desperately, flinging, as it 
were, her last coin in barter for safety. 

They had turned about in the blackness. 

“Shall we trust the bridge?” Manville had asked. 

“No—let’s forge the stream,” Whilla had replied, and 
the alternative seemed to offer what life did not. 

Manville had laughed. 

“It’s hell to pay,” he had said, “either way.” 

“All—right. If we get to the other side,” Whilla had called 
back to him as she galloped recklessly on, “we’ll take it as a 
sign that we must go on—together.” 

They had reached the other side but only after a fearful 
struggle. Their horses were swept from under them. Man¬ 
ville had dragged Whilla from the flood and even at the 
moment he did so, he saw, by a flash of lightning, that the 
bridge was still standing! 

Weak and all but done for, Manville, holding Whilla with 
one arm and gripping a tree with the other, had felt that she 


340 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


represented all that was worth while in life—all that he had 
brought out of death. 

She had clung to him; smiled wanly at him—they had come 
through death together! 

The thought was to colour all their future relations. 

Whilla had said a strange thing when, as they huddled 
under a rock and realized safety, she looked in his eyes— 
Manville recalled that the day was just breaking and she was 
shivering miserably. 

“All right. To the end. You’ve paid the price,” and 
she had laughed. 

The clock struck again. Ten! For an hour Manville had 
drifted—where? 

He stood up and shook himself as he had on that gray 
morning when he heard Whilla’s words and her poor, sur¬ 
rendering laugh. 

“No, by God, I haven’t paid!” he groaned. “I’ve taken 
and taken, but I haven’t killed her soul and she shall not kill 
mine.” 

At that instant Manville had his vision as Whilla had had 
hers. He, too, faced the coming experience and beyond 
that—he also saw the years on ahead—years! And then— 
old age with its gleanings. 

“If a man loses his own soul!” 

That is it—what else could count against that? 

He and Whilla Brookes—he and she had wrought together; 
had made life worth while, but they had done more—they 
had grown souls. 

If a man may wander and yet cling to his true home, so 
he may have many calls, but knows the one of his soul 
best. 

Manville went to the window and looked out at the splen¬ 
dour of the night. He grew strangely calm and happy. 

There lay the little home-trail among the pines—the moon 
revealed it here and there. Beyond stretched the Canyon 
of the Spirits with its upper and lower trails. Over one 
Whilla had gone, after making her supreme sacrifice. 


THE TENTH WOMAN 


34i 


“I will have you back/’ Manville spoke the words aloud, 
“ before the week is out, my dear. We have not yet paid the 
price! We’ll take the Bridge this time, my girl. It’s a 
rickety thing at best—but it’s safer than the other course 
for us; we must reach whatever is beyond, by the Bridge.” 


THE END 



































































































































































































. • 







ivlAY 3 1 1923 


















































